


Twelfth Night - The Season 5 New Year Special

by Jolie_Black



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Downton Abbey, Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Crossover, Detectives, Drama, Ensemble Cast, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene, Mystery, Suspense, Whodunnit, casefic, extra episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: January 1925. Hercule Poirot comes to Yorkshire looking for a missing man, and a nasty ghost is finally laid forever.A Downton Abbey/Hercule Poirot crossover case fic, set between the Season 5 Christmas Special and Episode 6.01 of Downton Abbey. Canon compliant with both universes.
Comments: 332
Kudos: 69





	1. Thursday, January 16th 1925 - Friday, January 17th 1925

**Author's Note:**

> Read this story as an extra episode of Downton Abbey - as Episode 5.10, or as the S5 New Year Special. It heavily builds on characters and events appearing and mentioned in the Downton Abbey TV series, and will make little to no sense if you haven’t seen it (up to episode 6.01).
> 
> As far as the Poirot aspect is concerned, you definitely don't need to have read or seen a lot of Agatha Christie’s stories or their various film and TV adaptions to make sense of the character (and of his faithful sidekick, Captain Arthur Hastings) here. My version is Christie’s original classic Belgian genius detective with the dandyish moustache, the impeccable manners and the uncanny ability to make people pour out their hearts to him, so if that sounds even just vaguely familiar, you’re good to go. In looks and in mannerisms, I picture David Suchet’s Poirot and Hugh Fraser’s Hastings from the ITV series.
> 
> Rated T for violence and non-graphic references to past sexual assault. 
> 
> This story is already complete except for some minor polishing, will be posted in regular instalments over the next few weeks, and will not be abandoned.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> I treasure all feedback immensely.
> 
> Comments may contain spoilers!!!

_**T** **HURSDAY, JANUARY 16** **th** **1925** _

**SCENE 1**

**EXT. LONDON. WHITEHAVEN MANSIONS – THE HOME OF HERCULE POIROT. MORNING  
**

_A grey, foggy day, but busy as always in Central London. Cars, taxicabs and buses pass outside the large modern residential building in a constant noisy stream. The leafless trees tell us we're in winter. Captain Arthur Hastings, in hat and coat, comes striding along the pavement, his breath visible on the cold air, then enters the building._

**SCENE** **2** **  
**

**INT. WHITEHAVEN MANSIONS. THE LOBBY. MORNING  
**

_Hastings nods good morning to the concierge, who nods pleasantly back, then ascends the stairs, two steps at a time.  
_

_  
_ **SCENE** **3**

**INT. WHITEHAVEN MANSIONS. POIROT'S FLAT. SITTING ROOM. MORNING  
**

_In his spotlessly clean and tastefully furnished flat, Hercule Poirot, the great detective, is seated at his breakfast table. As always, he is very elegantly dressed, and his hair and moustache are carefully coiffured. He has a napkin tucked into his collar to protect his shirt and waistcoat from making acquaintance with his toast, which is on the plate in front of him, cut into sixteen little squares of exactly equal size. Three have already been eaten. A teapot and a steaming tea glass are at hand, too, as are two egg cups with as-yet-uneaten boiled eggs in them, both also of exactly equal size. The door of the room opens, and Arthur Hastings, without hat and coat now, looks in. He baulks at the sight of his friend, as if he finds it quite shocking.  
_

POIROT _(pleasantly):_ Good morning, mon ami.

HASTINGS: Good heavens, Poirot. Breakfast at half past eleven? This is unheard of.

POIROT: Ah, but do I not always tell you that the superior mind disregards trivialities and instead directs its energy only towards matters of significance?

_He waves his friend into the chair opposite._

HASTINGS _(sitting down):_ You've told me that on every case we've ever worked on together, but what do you mean now?

POIROT _(with a slightly embarrassed air):_ Only that the superior mind of Hercule Poirot, earlier this morning, dismissed the ringing of his alarm clock as a triviality that warranted no attention, and instead devoted another two and a half hours to some much-needed recuperation in the horizontal position.

HASTINGS _(with a laugh):_ Sleeping in doesn't sound like you. But you do look tired. I've barely seen you since New Year's. Are you overworked?

POIROT _(raising an eyebrow):_ Hardly. _(He pushes the teapot towards his friend.)_ Would you like...?

HASTINGS: Er, no thanks. You know I'd rather leave these candied herbal mixtures to you.

_Poirot, looking rather injured, makes a move as if to rise to help his friend to a proper English brew, but Hastings waves him down again._

HASTINGS: Never mind. I thought you were going to tackle that blackmailing case. It sounded urgent.

POIROT: I did tackle it, and I solved it, weeks ago in fact. I assure you that this morning's indiscipline is the result of the splendid dinner my client gave me last night to show his gratitude, not of the exertions I undertook to bring the culprit to heel. Those were moderate at best.

HASTINGS: No challenge at all?

POIROT: None. A rich banker dismisses his longtime butler, and not four weeks later finds himself the victim of a blackmailing attempt revolving around the existence of an illegitimate son, whose alimony payments used to be handled by no other than the former butler himself. As you would put it, Hastings, Lord Sinderby would not have needed Hercule Poirot to work that one out.

HASTINGS _(amused):_ You're becoming a status symbol, my friend.

POIROT _(gloomily):_ Yes, and I don't like it. I'd much prefer to choose my cases based on interest and complexity, rather than on my client ' s purse.

HASTINGS: I hope there was proper compensation for the lack of mental exercise?

POIROT: Oh, yes! Not quite enough to retire on, maybe, but certainly enough for me to take a long holiday from any and all blackmailing cases, amateur or otherwise.

HASTINGS _(taking a letter out of his inside breast pocket):_ It's funny you should say that. I just meant to look in to say goodbye for a few days, but now I'm wondering whether you wouldn't like to come along. It would do you good.

POIROT: Come along where?

HASTINGS: I've just got an invitation from an old army pal of mine, Colonel Clarkson. I haven't seen him in years, but he's going up north tomorrow for a little break, and he's asked me to join him. I've said I'll come. We can stay at his brother's, and - _(He unfolds the letter and looks over it.)_ \- there'll be "plenty of fresh air and very decent shooting".

_Poirot, who has not looked uninterested to begin with, now shakes his head._

POIROT: It is very amiable of you to think of me, Hastings, but that doesn't sound like my kind of holiday at all.

HASTINGS: I shouldn't have mentioned the shooting, should I? But Clarkson writes that his brother is a doctor, so that could mean some good conversation as well.

_But Poirot's mind is made up and won't be changed._

POIROT _(taking another sip of his tisane):_ Where exactly is it you're going?

HASTINGS: North Yorkshire. _(He looks over the letter again.)_ Some small place called Downton. Between Ripon and Thirsk.

_Poirot abruptly puts the tea glass back down and looks across at his friend in surprise._

HASTINGS _(with a frown):_ Why, what is it?

POIROT: Now that is a very curious coincidence, mon ami. Very curious indeed.

**SCENE** **4**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. MORNING**

_A pale sun is visible behind a thin veil of winter clouds. Crows are cawing in the distant trees. In marked contrast to the urban hustle-and-bustle of the previous scene, the great house of Downton Abbey looks as unshaken as ever in its rock-like solidity. A gardener is raking a handful of brown leaves from the front lawn. The front door of the building opens, and Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, appears, dressed in tweeds. The gardener straightens up and knuckles his forehead. Robert nods to him and walks off in the direction of the stable yard._

**SCENE** **5**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. MORNING**

_Cora, Countess of Grantham, comes walking down the great staircase. In the otherwise empty hall, she meets Carson the butler, who has just emerged from the dining room._

CORA: Good morning, Carson.

CARSON: Good morning, Your Ladyship.

CORA: Is His Lordship around?

CARSON: I'm afraid he's just gone out to the stable yard. I believe he and Mr Branson are taking a tour of the estate together.

CORA: What, another? Well, never mind. They still have so much to look at and talk through. ( _Carson inclines his head in agreement.)_ Can you really believe he's leaving us? And taking little Sybbie with him? I still can't. It makes me so sad.

CARSON _(diplomatically):_ Well, he is a member of this family, and he has been here a long time. _(A pause.)_ Erm – Mrs Crawley telephoned earlier. She can't come to tea tomorrow, since she has some errands in York that will take all day. But she says she will pick up something for the children to make up for it later.

CORA _(with a fond smile):_ Oh, she's spoiling them rotten.

_Just then, a large paper plane comes whizzing out of nowhere. It passes between Cora and Carson with a whoosh that makes them both jump, then lands neatly on the carpet a little further away. There's a stifled giggle from the upstairs gallery, and two small heads – one blond, one brunette - duck out of sight behind the balustrade, just a little too late._

CORA _(with a laugh):_ And so are we all.

_Carson walks over to pick up the paper plane from the floor. There are footsteps on the stairs, and Carson straightens up just in time to see his under-butler, Thomas Barrow, coming downstairs with little Marigold on his shoulders._

THOMAS _(to Cora):_ I'm very sorry, Your Ladyship. I thought I had made it quite clear that no plane is allowed to land if there are pedestrians on the runway. _(He releases one of Marigold's podgy little legs and holds out his hand for the paper plane.)_ Let me take care of that for you, Mr Carson.

_Carson reluctantly hands it over._

CORA: Well, no harm done _. (She reaches up to take her youngest grandchild's hand in hers.)_ Good morning, dear Marigold.

MARIGOLD: Morning, Granny!

_She looks quite happy on her lofty perch, and even happier when Thomas hands the plane up for her to hold during the journey back upstairs. It's quite obvious that this is a routine that has been going on all morning. When they're out of earshot, Carson turns to Cora._

CARSON _(in an undertone):_ You don't mind, do you? The girl addressing you in this way, I mean?

CORA _(lightly):_ Oh, she's just parroting the older two. How is she to understand the difference? And besides, I don't suppose a two-year-old knows how to say "Your Ladyship" yet.

_She walks off towards the library, concluding the matter. Carson sends a long-suffering glance up at the now quiet gallery._

CARSON _(under his breath):_ And since when do four-year-old aim paper planes so accurately?

**SCENE** **6**

**INT. LONDON. WHITEHAVEN MANSIONS. POIROT'S FLAT. THE SITTING ROOM. MORNING  
**

_Poirot and Hastings have relocated to the other side of the room to make themselves more comfortable. Poirot now sits in an armchair. Hastings has been provided with some proper tea of his own_ _after all_ _, and_ _is_ _helping himself to a cup from the tray on the coffee table._

POIROT: … so when I had made my farewells to Lord and Lady Sinderby, their new butler came up to me in the hall and asked me whether I could spare a moment to talk to one of the servants downstairs. There was a mother among them whose child had gone missing, he said, and when she heard that there was a famous detective in the house, she begged the butler that I might come and hear her story.

HASTINGS: A missing child? That's terrible. I can see why she'd be desperate.

_He sits down on the sofa._

POIROT: Well, when I went downstairs, I learned that the mother, a Mrs Coyle, was Lord Sinderby's laundry woman. A heavy-set, very red-faced specimen of her kind, well past sixty. And the missing child was a full-grown man in his thirties, who may well have decided to simply cut his mother off and make his own way in life from now on. Not the kindest thing to do, of course, but not technically a criminal act. I began to suspect that the butler only let her talk to me so I could tell her exactly that, and so spare the Sinderbys' servants' hall any more of her lamentations. I had no real intention of following the matter up when I left her crying into her apron last night.

HASTINGS: And what's changed your mind now?

POIROT: Your Colonel Clarkson. The last Mrs Coyle heard from her son was from one of the places you just mentioned, from Thirsk. She had a letter from him, dated January 6 th  and postmarked at Thirsk, that told her he was close to concluding his business in the area, and that when he'd return to London, she would never need to be a washerwoman again. But he didn't return. Nor did he write again, or send her word in any other way.

HASTINGS _(with a shrug):_ That's barely two weeks since. Anything might have happened to explain the delay.

POIROT _(with a smile):_ Hastings, please. Not ten minutes ago, you were very keen to sell that trip to North Yorkshire to me as a treat. Are you trying to uninvite me now?

_**FRIDAY, JANUARY 17TH 1925** _

**SCENE** **7**

**EXT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. THE RAILWAY STATION. EVENING**

_The next day at dusk, the train from London pulls into the little station. It screeches to a halt alongside the platform and lets off a great cloud of steam. The guards move in to open the doors of the first class carriages. Arthur Hastings jumps out first, then comes Hercule Poirot, carefully negotiating the narrow iron steps. Bringing up the rear is a large, broad-shouldered man with straw-coloured hair, a bristling moustache and a florid complexion. He looks like a more uncouth, less cultured younger version of the Downton village doctor, Richard Clarkson, which is, incidentally, exactly what he is. Dr Clarkson himself stands waiting on the platform, looking over the heads of the other passengers for his guests. He spots them, and they move towards each other. Meanwhile, a uniformed railway porter carts up the three travellers' luggage – a duffle bag and gun for the Colonel, a suitcase and gun for Hastings, and two suitcases but no gun for Poirot._

COLONEL CLARKSON _(to his brother, making the introductions):_ … and this is Mr Hercule Poirot, a friend of Hastings', who decided at the last minute to come along. You don't mind, do you?

_Dr Clarkson shakes hands with the unexpected additional guest. A woman's voice speaks up behind them. It's Isobel Crawley, carrying some paper bags imprinted with twirly names and shop logos, just arrived on the same train from her shopping trip to York._

ISOBEL _(excitedly):_ Excuse me, did I just hear that right? Hercule Poirot, here in Downton?

_Dr Clarkson doffs his hat to her, and so do the other men._

POIROT: The same, Madame, at your service.

DR CLARKSON _(to Isobel):_ Mr Poirot is here with my brother Patrick, whom you know, and Captain Hastings. _(He hides it well that he only learned this a minute ago, too.)_ Gentlemen, this is Mrs Crawley, a backbone of our local hospital, and a good friend.

_Isobel rather blushes at the compliments, then addresses some small talk to the two detectives. Meanwhile, Dr Clarkson turns to his brother._

DR CLARKSON _(in an irritated undertone):_ You do know that my house only has three bedrooms?

COLONEL CLARKSON _(not bothering to keep his voice down):_ Oh, no matter, Hastings and I can put up at the pub.

ISOBEL _(to the Colonel):_ Forgive me, but if you're looking for a place to stay, I'm afraid the pub is not an option. One of the schoolmasters is getting married, and I heard that his guests have taken over every free bed in the house.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(jovially):_ Well, then I'll kip on Richard's couch. We've had worse in the war, eh, Hastings?

_He claps his former comrade-in-arms on the back so heartily that Hastings' knees nearly buckle. Poirot winces. Dr Clarkson looks unhappy. Isobel smiles._

ISOBEL: Mr Poirot, Captain Hastings, please do come to Crawley House for tea tomorrow. I've read so much about you in the papers. I can't wait to hear first-hand what life as a detective is really like.

_Poirot, smiling back, touches his hat in acknowledgement._

**SCENE** **8**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. DR CLARKSON'S HOUSE. THE SITTING ROOM. NIGHT**

_In Dr Clarkson's small but cosy, book-lined sitting room, the Doctor and his three guests are assembled after dinner. The curtains are drawn, and the light is low. The Colonel and Hastings share the sofa, both holding tumblers of whisky, while Dr Clarkson, in an armchair, puffs_ _at_ _his pipe. Poirot is in the only other armchair. Over by the writing desk near the window, a duvet and pillow hang over the back of the desk chair, ready for the Colonel's use later on. Dr Clarkson and Poirot are in the middle of a conversation about the respective merits of city and country life._

DR CLARKSON: … no reason to complain, but I won't deny that the evenings can be lonely at times, especially in the winter.

POIROT: But surely you're not the only educated man around here. I would imagine that in a place like this, the doctor, the vicar and the school headmaster would be natural allies?

DR CLARKSON: Well, Mr Travis, our vicar, is a man of God, while I consider myself a man of science. There are very few matters concerning both this life and the next on which we see eye to eye. _(He exchanges a look with his brother, who rolls his eyes and nods.)_ And Mr Dawes, our headmaster, is a kind man, and well-read, but I'm still to have a conversation with him that goes beyond exchanging views on the weather.

POIROT _(sympathetically):_ A subject that is soon exhausted, of course.

DR CLARKSON: Oh no, quite the contrary. Mr Dawes is an amateur meteorologist. He can fill whole evenings talking about nothing _but_ the weather. He's a real specialist in that field, and quite an adept forecaster as well, which the farmers around here really appreciate. He prides himself on his records being the most precise in the county. But you know how awkward it can be to be stuck with a connoisseur who neither understands nor cares that you don't share his passion. But – _(He straightens up in his chair, as if to shake off his gloom.)_ – there is also nothing more tiring than having to listen to a man lamenting his lot when he has no reason to. So please, Mr Poirot, tell us more about this case of the missing man that you mentioned over dinner. I act as the local coroner, so I ask out of a professional interest.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(to his brother):_ Are you saying that you had this Mr Coyle on your table?

DR CLARKSON: Not that I'm aware. _(To Poirot)_ Is there any reason to assume that the man is dead?

POIROT: As for that, it is far too early to tell.

HASTINGS _(to Dr Clarkson):_ Do people often go missing hereabouts?

DR CLARKSON: Not often, fortunately. But it does happen. A toddler that is left unwatched for too long may end up in a mill pond. Or a very old man may go for a walk in the woods and not find his way back home.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(with a sudden laugh):_ And don't forget the loony.

HASTINGS: What loony?

DR CLARKSON: There's an asylum some way to the north of here, on the border with Durham. Birkby Manor. One of their patients disappeared a couple of weeks ago, only to resurface right in front of the night train to London at the Wiske railway bridge. I viewed the body, or what was left of it. That was the most recent occasion when I and our vicar locked horns, I'm afraid. Mr Travis refused to give the poor devil a proper burial for the longest time, even though I kept telling him it could just as well have been an accident.

HASTINGS: And was it, in your opinion?

DR CLARKSON: How was I to tell? It was a possibility. But honestly, who sets up an asylum right next to a railway line?

_The Colonel gives a cynical chuckle. Poirot grimaces._

DR CLARKSON _(to Hastings):_ But to return to your original question, Captain Hastings – most of our local disappearances are, luckily, only temporary. Much like the vicar of Easingwolde's daughter, who wrote a few days later that she'd just taken a little trip to Gretna Green with the gardener and would be right back after the honeymoon. _(The men laugh.)_ In other words, this isn't London, where a man can disappear and nobody even care.

HASTINGS: I should have thought that there were plenty of wild places around here where a man could vanish without a trace. Many more than in London.

DR CLARKSON: True enough. At this time of the year, few people would survive even one frosty night out in the open. And a body could lie in the woods for years afterwards without being found, or be swallowed whole by some of those black ponds on the moors. But the difference is, here, they would be missed. Unless they were some vagrant just passing through, they would be known and looked for. _(To Poirot)_ So in my capacity as coroner, I don't think I'll be able to assist your Mrs Coyle in finding out what happened to her son. No unidentified body has passed through my hands since January 6  th . Besides, I suppose you've already checked with the local police?

POIROT: Yes, without success.

DR CLARKSON: But if you think it could be useful, I could ring the neighbouring hospitals and ask if they've had anyone come in who fits his description. Mr Coyle may have had an accident or been taken ill while he was up here.

POIROT: That would be very helpful indeed, Doctor. Thank you.

COLONEL CLARKSON: Do we _have_ a description?  
POIROT: Yes, we do. Philip Coyle, London born and bred, thirty-four years of age, of middle height and slim build, brown eyes, and straight brown hair usually worn short and combed to the side.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(dismissively)_ : That could be anyone.

POIROT _(urbanely):_ Well, it could not be you, Colonel, nor me, so that's a start.

_They all laugh again._


	2. Saturday, January 18th 1925 - Sunday, January 19th 1925

**_SATURDAY, JANUARY 18 th 1925_ **

**SCENE 9**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. DR CLARKSON'S HOUSE. THE KITCHEN. MORNING**

_The next morning, as the sun makes a valiant effort to come out behind the clouds, Hercule Poirot – dressed as meticulously as always - and Arthur Hastings – in country tweeds - sit at the rough wooden table in the kitchen at the back of Dr Clarkson's house, bent over a map of the area. In the background, with her back turned to the room, a woman in cap and apron is at the sink, scrubbing pans and pots from their breakfast. Neither Dr Clarkson nor his military brother are anywhere to be seen._

HASTINGS _(with his eyes on the map):_ I keep thinking of all these woods and moors. If Philip Coyle wanted to disappear, or if someone made him disappear, and he's lying dead somewhere, it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Where do we even start?

POIROT: 'We'? I thought you were going shooting with the Colonel.

HASTINGS: I will, if he ever wakes.

_They exchange a look, only partly amused._

POIROT: Well, don't forget Madame Crawley's invitation to tea. It wouldn't do to be late.

COLONEL CLARKSON: You talking about me, by any chance? _(He stands in the doorway, unshaven, in a dressing gown and with tousled hair, yawning, and has obviously heard the last few words.)_ Richard's out already, isn't he?

HASTINGS: He left for work an hour ago, I'm afraid. He said he'd be back for dinner.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(with a shrug):_ Well, he's been drowning his sorrow in work for the past twenty-five years, so that's nothing new.

POIROT _(intrigued):_ What sorrow, Colonel?

COLONEL CLARKSON: His wife. She died in childbed when they'd been married for barely a year. Not a great thing to happen, obviously, especially to a doctor. When he signed up with the Royal Army Medical Corps and headed for South Africa shortly afterwards, none of us expected to ever see him again. _(Forcing a laugh)_ But here he is. Better to drown in work than in drink, eh?

_He laughs again, then turns and walks back out of the room, presumably to reappear later in a more presentable shape. Poirot and Hastings exchange a startled look._

**SCENE 10**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. A HOSPITAL CORRIDOR. MORNING**

_Dr Clarkson, in his white doctor's coat, walks along the corridor, passing and nodding to a nurse who goes in the other direction. Then he enters one of the wards._

**SCENE 11**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. A HOSPITAL WARD. MORNING**

_Isobel Crawley sits at the bedside of a patient, quietly talking to him, a clipboard on her lap, when Dr Clarkson looks in._

DR CLARKSON: I was hoping to catch you. Do you have a moment?

ISOBEL: Of course.

_She rises and walks out into the corridor with him._

**SCENE 12**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. A HOSPITAL CORRIDOR. MORNING**

ISOBEL: Please don't tell me we have to kick Mr Stubbs out just because he's in arrears on his insurance contract.

DR CLARKSON: I leave the figures to you. No, I have a request. A rather brazen request, I'm afraid. But I need your help.

ISOBEL _(with a smile):_ I'm all ears.

**SCENE 13**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. CRAWLEY HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_In the afternoon of the same day, Poirot and Hastings have duly called at Crawley House for tea. They, too, appear to be discussing Poirot's reason for coming to Yorkshire. Isobel seems very moved by what she has just heard._

ISOBEL: Mr Poirot, no one could have my more heartfelt sympathy than a mother who has lost her son. Even if he was a grown man and lived his own life, I know she will be in agony every minute of every day. So please let me assist you in your investigation, and maybe help you bring him safely home.

POIROT: That is most kind of you, Madame Crawley, but I don't quite see how -

ISOBEL: Oh, I'm not suggesting that I could be of any help to you intellectually. Dear me, of course not. But let me support you by any means that I do have at my disposition.

 _Poirot raises an eyebrow in enquiry. Hastings_ _'_ _face is a question mark, too._

ISOBEL: I know that Dr Clarkson's house is not built for housing and entertaining more than one guest at a time, and will be intolerably crowded right now. While I am a widow with far too much time on my hands and a far too large home. I should think the solution was obvious.

_Poirot and Hastings exchange a look, Hastings surprised, Poirot less so._

ISOBEL: Please let poor Dr Clarkson breathe. Feel free to make this place your headquarters instead, for as long as is needed.

POIROT: Oh, no, no. Please, Madame, that is a most generous offer, but I don't see how we can accept it without imposing on you to an unconscionable degree. And would Dr Clarkson agree? Might the new arrangement not reflect unfavourably on him?

ISOBEL _(with a smile):_ Mr Poirot, I assure you that you could not offend Dr Clarkson in this matter even if you tried. I have known him for many years now. Believe me, I can tell when he is overwhelmed.

 _Poirot opens his mouth as if to renew his protest, but then he glances at Hastings, who indicates_ _'_ _why not_ _'_ _with a shrug, and gives in. Isobel, looking very content, stands and walks over to ring the bell. The two man rise politely, too. A moment later, the woman who doubles as housekeeper and cook in Isobel_ ' _s household looks in._

ISOBEL: Mrs Field, please ask Archie to light the fires in the guest bedrooms now, and then to walk over with the cart and get the gentlemen's luggage from the Doctor's. And could we have dinner at half past seven?

MRS FIELD _(with a curious sidelong glance at the two guests):_ Very good, ma'am.

_Mrs Field leaves. Isobel clasps her hands._

ISOBEL: Oh, I am quite chuffed to have you stay with me, I admit it. I can't wait to tell the family at the Abbey!

POIROT: Well - to be entirely truthful with you, Madame, I would prefer it if my presence here and my mission were not widely advertised. Not yet, at any rate.

_Isobel looks a little disappointed._

ISOBEL: Oh. Well, I understand. I'd hate to do anything that might compromise your investigation. I won't say a word then. But in all fairness, I should warn you, too. In our little corner of the world, news can travel very fast.

**SCENE 14**

**EXT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. THE SQUARE. EVENING**

_In the dusk, Poirot and Hastings are walking along across the village square, away from Crawley House, Hastings with his characteristic long strides, one step to Poirot_ ' _s two, while Poirot carefully picks his way across the uneven surface with the aid of his silver-handled walking stick. A young fellow dressed like a gardener is rattling along behind them, pulling an empty handcart._

HASTINGS: Well, that's a pretty kettle of fish. How are we going to explain this to Dr Clarkson without making him look like a bad host?

POIROT: Rest easy, Hastings, there will be no need for that.

HASTINGS: What do you mean?

_Poirot glances over his shoulder, but the young man - Archie Field, presumably - is busy staring after two girls who have just stepped out of the Post Office and not listening._

POIROT: Only that both our gracious new hostess and her servants already knew that we were coming to stay before we'd ever set foot in their house.

HASTINGS _(understanding):_ Oh. Oooh. You mean we've been steered?

_Poirot nods._

HASTINGS: But you don't like being steered. You hate it.

POIROT: Not in this case. I did feel guilty about crowding the good Dr Clarkson out of his own home. And I do not wish to decry your old friend, Hastings, but I could do with a night without Colonel Clarkson’s snores making the walls of the house shake in their foundations.

HASTINGS: Yes, sorry about that. It's strange, he was a real pal, and it was good to have him around in the war, but somehow it's like he never moved on.

POIROT: An accurate summary, I should say. Besides, we will find Philip Coyle neither lurking in the attic of the Doctor's house, nor hiding in Madame Crawley's coal shed, so it really does not matter where I set out from to look for him.

HASTINGS: So will you go to Thirsk tomorrow and ask around there? It seems like the most obvious place to start, if he was staying there.

POIROT _(with a smile):_ No. Tomorrow, Hastings, is Sunday. So while you and Colonel Clarkson go banging around this beautiful countryside killing innocent animals again, I will attend Mass at the Capuchin Friary in Ripon and pray for the salvation of your souls.

HASTINGS _(mischievously):_ And for a streak of inspiration regarding the lost Mr Coyle?

_Poirot gives his friend an injured look._

POIROT: Hastings, Hercule Poirot does not do 'inspiration', and you should know it.

**_SUNDAY, JANUARY 19 th 1925_ **

**SCENE 15**

**INT. RIPON. CAPUCHIN FRIARY CHURCH. MORNING**

_The next morning, Mass at the Friary church has ended, and the congregation - men, women and children in their Sunday best - file out. A friar in the brown Capuchin habit stands by the open door to farewell his parishioners. Hercule Poirot, carrying his hat and walking stick, is in the queue right behind a brown-haired younger man who leads a very neatly dressed little girl by the hand. Poirot of course doesn_ _'t know it, but this is T_ _om Branson, accompanied by his daughter Sybbie. They reach the door, and the friar bends down to put his hand on the girl_ _s head. Poirot is close enough to hear and see everything that's going on._

FRIAR _(to Sybbie):_ God bless you, little girl, and remember – whereever you go, your father will look after you, and our father in heaven and your dear mother will always watch over you.

_Sybbie nods gravely. Tom smiles fondly down at her and squeezes her hand in reassurance._

FRIAR _(to Tom):_ Well, safe journey then, Mr Branson. We will miss you. But you must go where God leads you.

TOM: Thank you, Father Dominic. For everything. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask if you'd still have time for me before I leave. Maybe Friday evening? I know it's not your usual time, but I'd feel so much better starting anew with a clean slate, so to speak.

FRIAR: Gladly, Mr Branson.

_Tom nods, and he and Sybbie move outside to make room for those waiting in line behind them. Poirot follows them with his eyes._

**SCENE 16**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. MORNING**

_Daisy Mason, in cap and apron, is busy at the central table in the basement kitchen, peeling potatoes. Andy Parker, in his footman's livery, is hanging around chatting with her. Mrs Patmore comes walking in, tying on her own apron._

MRS PATMORE: You'll never guess what Mrs Field's just told me at church.

DAISY: No, we won't. Out with it.

MRS PATMORE: Mrs Crawley has a guest from London!

_She makes it a grand announcement, but it fails to have the intended effect._

DAISY _(her eyes on the potatoes):_ Dear me, how special. That could never happen in this house.

MRS PATMORE: You don't know who it is. _(Enunciating the name carefully)_ It's Hercule Poirot.

_This fails to have the intended effect on Andy, but Daisy stares in delighted disbelief._

DAISY: No.

ANDY: Sorry, Erkle who?

DAISY _(abandoning her potatoes, excitedly):_ Hercule Poirot! Don't you read the papers? _(Andy shrugs.)_ He's a detective! He's solved murders and found stolen jewels and busted assassination plots and done all sorts of crazy, dangerous things! _(To Mrs Patmore)_ Can't Mrs Crawley bring him to dinner here, so we could sneak a peek?

ANDY: Don't be silly, we don't want detectives here again, do we? _(To Mrs Patmore)_ Shouldn't we warn Anna and Mr Bates?

MRS PATMORE _(with a laugh):_ Oh, no need for that, Andy. He's not the police. He's a private detective. Quite a famous one, too. But as Daisy said, it's always about the forged will of Sir Whatsit, or Lady Willynilly's lost diamonds, not about simple folk like us.

ANDY _(doubtfully):_ Well, let's hope you're right, and he gives us a wide berth.

DAISY _(scowling):_ You're such a spoilsport.

MRS PATMORE _(to Andy, while she walks over to the stove):_ Can you hand me the pot from over there? The small one? _(Andy obliges.)_ Oh, and if you see Mrs Hughes, could you tell her I'd like a word?

DAISY: Mrs Hughes isn't in. She has time off today and went out just before you came back. I heard her say goodbye to Mr Carson.

MRS PATMORE: Oh. Well, never mind, it'll keep.

_But in spite of her light tone, she does look a bit vexed._

**SCENE 17**

**EXT. NORTH YORKSHIRE MOORS. MORNING**

_Arthur Hastings and Colonel Clarkson sit in a fairly large and comfortable duck blind by a small lake, wrapped up warm against the cold and with their guns beside them. Hastings is drinking coffee from a thermos. The Colonel is taking swigs from a hip flask._

COLONEL CLARKSON: Where's your little friend got to?

HASTINGS: I don't know. He said he was going to church, but after that, no idea.

COLONEL CLARKSON: He's a strange fellow.

HASTINGS: He probably thinks the same about you.

_The Colonel laughs, then coughs as his drink goes down the wrong way. Hastings pats him amiably on the back._

COLONEL CLARKSON: Is he really as clever as all that?

HASTINGS: Cleverer, I assure you.

COLONEL CLARKSON: Why do you stick with him? Aren't you worried about looking like an idiot, next to him?  
HASTINGS: Well, I am an idiot, next to him, so it's only true. _(The Colonel narrows his eyes sceptically. Hastings sighs.)_ Well – when the war was over and I left the army, I drifted, like so many of us did. He was the anchor I needed. Still is, to be honest. You've done the clever thing, to stay on and make a real career of it.

COLONEL CLARKSON _(with a snort):_ Clever, or lazy.

_A plump bird rises from the thickets on the other side of the lake, wings flapping heavily. Colonel Clarkson grabs his gun, takes aim and fires._

COLONEL CLARKSON _(with a grin):_ Got it.

_The dead bird comes trundling down slowly until it hits the surface of the lake and disappears, far out of reach._

**SCENE 18**

**EXT. NORTH YORKSHIRE. A COUNTRY ROAD. AFTERNOON**

_Leaden rainclouds hang in the sky above the rolling hills. A large car marked 'Taxi' moves along the winding road, uphill towards a set of buildings surrounded by well-tended fields and meadows with grazing sheep._

**SCENE 19**

**INT. TAXI. AFTERNOON**

_From the back seat of the taxi, Hercule Poirot is looking out at the passing countryside. A solitary figure appears on the road ahead. It's a woman, dressed all in black, who is walking in the same direction as the car is going, carrying a basket and an umbrella over her arm. The taxi passes her so fast that her face can't be seen._

**SCENE 20**

**EXT. BIRKBY MANOR. COURTYARD. AFTERNOON**

_The taxi covers the remaining few hundred yards and then passes through a gate into the wide courtyard of the asylum at Birkby Manor. This is not the dreary, prison-like brick building that might be expected, but more like a large farm, open and friendly, with no walls nor fences nor bars across the windows. Near the gate, a young man in working clothes stands leaning on his broom. He has a round, rather plump face and narrow eyes, and he waves enthusiastically at the taxi as it passes him. Poirot smiles politely and waves back._

**SCENE 21  
INT. BIRKBY MANOR. THE DIRECTOR's OFFICE. AFTERNOON **

_Poirot is seated in a visitor's chair in front of the asylum director's desk in a wood-panelled small office. The director himself, Dr Latimer, is a bearded and bespectacled man past fifty. At first glance, he could be taken for an easy-going Father Christmas figure, but his keen, lively light-blue eyes are a window into the sharp, unorthodox mind within. The two men have been served coffee and are deep in conversation._

DR LATIMER: … but any place like this needs to support itself as much as it can, too, of course.

POIROT _(in a tone of genuine admiration):_ To be honest, Doctor, I have seen quite a few asylums in the course of my work, but I have never seen any other place like this at all.

DR LATIMER: That's kind of you to say, sir. I know we do things rather differently here, and we get our share of scepticism from my esteemed colleagues elsewhere. But we want our residents to feel that this is their home, and that their life has value. The men farm the land and garden, and the women sew and bake. Most of the surplus we produce is good enough to sell, and you could never tell it was made by so-called imbeciles.

POIROT: I admire your approach, Doctor. It makes me wonder why this is not done the same way everywhere.

DR LATIMER: My hope is that one day, it will be. The upside is, we do almost entirely without walls and locked doors. The downside is, of course, that occasionally a resident who feels upset or unsettled by something will go wandering off. We keep an eye on them, of course, and we've never lost anyone for long. Mr Wilkinson, I'm afraid, was the first whom we could not find in time.

POIROT: Was he what would commonly be called an imbecile, too?

DR LATIMER: No. Edward Wilkinson was one of our few residents who were not born the way they are, but who developed his insanity later on in life. It was quite tragic, really. He was a vicar, and a very promising young man, too. An excellent preacher, deeply devoted to his calling. But then he started conversing with demons and angels, and when he refused food and drink because he felt he had received a divine command to do so, the situation became untenable, and he was brought here. In another age, he might have been revered as a saint. But in our modern times, he was regarded as a liability, even by the Church.

POIROT: Had he been here long?

DR LATIMER: Eight years. He did have good days when he was almost his old self. He would conduct services in our chapel then, and led the choir, and he was much loved by all our residents for his kind and gentle manner. His death was a real loss to this community, and he has now become a mere memory, and for me, of course, a very interesting case study. I'm working on a book about the various disorders of the mind, and his case will of course feature in it.

POIROT: When did he die?

DR LATIMER: On the night of January 6th. It was the last train of the day on that route that hit him. He'd gone missing a few days before that. He'd had a particularly bad time around New Year's, when he talked incessantly about the ending of time and Armageddon and the Last Judgment. Something about these visions must have frightened him into leaving. He'd never taken off before.

POIROT: I see. Well, Dr Latimer, one last question, if you'll permit. Have you had any new admissions since the New Year?  
DR LATIMER: The only person we've taken in recently is a young woman who fell from a farm cart onto her head and has not been the same since. She can obviously not be your missing Mr Coyle. And neither is Mr Wilkinson, since that is what you were wondering.

POIROT _(in a rather disappointed tone):_ No, you're right. They are most certainly not the same.

**SCENE 22**

**EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot's taxi is making its way back down the road from Birkby Manor. While Poirot and Dr Latimer were talking, the weather has taken a turn for the worse. A strong wind has risen. Rain lashes the windows of the taxi, and the windscreen wipers dance furiously across the windscreen. Ahead, a figure emerges from the mist. It is the same woman in black whom Poirot passed on his way up, now en route downhill again, too. She walks hunched, with the wind tearing at her skirts and threatening to rip her umbrella out of her hand while she holds onto her hat with the other._

**SCENE 23**

**INT. TAXI. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot, seeing the woman's desperate struggle against the elements on the road ahead, taps the driver on the shoulder. The driver slows to a halt next to the woman, and Poirot throws the back door open._

POIROT: Please to get in, Madame.

_The woman looks at him in surprise. It's Mrs Hughes, the Downton Abbey housekeeper._

POIROT: This is no weather to be out in.

_Mrs Hughes hesitates, but then folds up her useless umbrella, gathers her skirts and climbs in. Poirot pulls the door closed, and the taxi starts moving again._

MRS HUGHES _(settling down next to Poirot):_ This is very kind of you, sir. I was headed for the bus stop, but it's nearly two miles down the road.

_They sit in slightly awkward silence for a moment._

POIROT: Have you made a visit at Birkby Manor?

MRS HUGHES: Yes, I have. My sister lives there. Here, she made these for me. _(She pulls her basket onto her lap and takes out a box wrapped in waxed paper.)_ Please try them. They're very good, and she always gives me way more than I can eat.

_She opens the box to reveal a set of nine of the most elaborate and appetising petit fours imaginable._

POIROT _(with the smile of a true connoisseur):_ Oh! They look fantastic. May I?  
_He helps himself to one, and closes his eyes in delight when he bites into it. Mrs Hughes watches him demolish it, a proud smile of her own playing around her lips._

POIROT _(dabbing at his mouth with a silk handkerchief):_ I heard from Dr Latimer that Birkby Manor is famous for bringing out the best in all their residents, but this even surpasses my expectations.

MRS HUGHES _(sincerely):_ Dr Latimer is an angel in human form, and I'm blessed to have got a place for my sister there.

POIROT: Do you visit her often?

MRS HUGHES: As often as I can. I try to stay longer normally, and take her out on a walk when the weather is fine.

POIROT: Do you know this area well, then?

MRS HUGHES: Oh, I dare say. Birkby is a true haven for the people who live there, but it can still be a bit noisy at times. There is a ruined chapel a little further along here that's a famous beauty spot. We often go there for some peace and quiet, and for the view. _(She turns to point, but of course outside all is fog and rain, and the car windows have misted up on the inside as well. Mrs Hughes chuckles.)_ Hard to believe on a day like this, isn't it?

_The car, which has been travelling steadily downhill, suddenly stops. Poirot frowns._

MRS HUGHES: That'll be the level crossing at the Wiske Bridge. We'll be on the main road and at the bus stop in a minute.

POIROT: Surely you're not thinking of going back out into that storm? I'm staying in the village of Downton. If that is on your route, then please feel free to stay on board.

MRS HUGHES: Oh, I'm sorry, but Downton is quite the wrong direction for me. There's a bus shelter on the side of the road. I'll be fine.

_She suddenly seems in rather a hurry to pack up her things and be gone._

POIROT: As you wish.

_A distant roar outside the car heralds the approaching train, and a moment later it's there, headlights slicing through the gloom. It thunders past in a cloud of steam and rainwater, racing south so fast that its slipstream makes the car wobble. In silence, Poirot and Mrs Hughes follow it with their eyes until it turns the corner. Then the taxi starts moving again. It passes the signalman who guards the crossing. He stands at the side of the road with his red flag lowered, barely visible in the mist. Then the car turns into the main road._

MRS HUGHES: So you're not a regular visitor at Birkby?

POIROT: No, I only came today to consult with Dr Latimer.

MRS HUGHES: Are you a doctor, too, then?  
POIROT: No. But I am a keen student of the human mind.

_He smiles. The bus stop is already in sight._

**SCENE 24**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. CRAWLEY HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. EVENING**

_Outside, it's still raining. Mrs Field is carrying a tray with used tea things out of the room just when Hercule Poirot, dried off and looking pristine again, appears in the doorway. He draws aside to let the cook/housekeeper pass. Hastings, spotting Poirot from his place in an armchair, gets to his feet._

HASTINGS: There you are!

POIROT _(walking into the room, to Isobel):_ My most sincere apologies, Madame Crawley, for my long absence.

ISOBEL _(with a smile):_ Never mind. I assume it was in your good cause. I hope you were successful?

POIROT: I wish I could say that.

_When it's clear that he's not going to elaborate, Isobel reaches over to the side table and picks up some papers._

ISOBEL: Two messages came for you while you were out. _(She hands him a folded piece of paper.)_ This one is from Dr Clarkson.

_Poirot puts on his pince nez, unfolds the paper and looks over it with a frown, then passes it on to Hastings._

POIROT: No hospital in the area has had an unidentified patient admitted between January 6th and today who fits the description of Philip Coyle.

HASTINGS _(reading from the note):_ Richmond had a one-armed tramp nobody knew, but the doctors there put him at sixty at least. He has since died of pneumonia. And York has a young woman who will admit neither to her name nor to the fact that she's recently given birth. She's still there. _(With a snort)_ Which of them is less likely to be Philip Coyle?

POIROT: Yes, mon ami, we seem to be drawing blanks everywhere we look.

ISOBEL: Well, then maybe it's time for a pleasant distraction?

_She hands him the envelope with the second message. It has already been opened. Poirot frowns._

HASTINGS _(quickly):_ It was for both of us, so I opened it.

_Poirot takes out a formal printed card with a handwritten addition at the bottom. His eyebrows fly up almost to his hairline. Isobel and Hastings exchange an amused look._

POIROT _(reading from the card):_ 'The Countess of Grantham requests the pleasure of your company at dinner at Downton Abbey today at 8 o'clock.' And at the bottom, 'Only if convenient. Apologies for the short notice, but we can't wait to meet you both. Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham.'

_He looks up, first at his friend, then at Isobel._

ISOBEL _(with a little shrug):_ Well, it wasn't me, but you know what I said. News travels fast.


	3. Sunday, January 19th 1925 / Evening

**SCENE 25**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS' HALL. EVENING**

_It's just before the servants' tea. Daisy has started laying the table. Anna and Baxter are clearing away their sewing things. Bates, in one of the rocking chairs by the fireplace, folds up his newspaper. Thomas is at the high desk under the bell board. Molesley is leaning against the door jamb with his arms crossed. Mrs Patmore, arriving from the kitchen carrying a heavy tray, shoos him away so she can pass through. He jumps aside awkwardly._

MRS PATMORE _(to the room at large):_ That's it, they've just rung, they're all coming.

_She puts the tray down on the table. Anna and Bates exchange a look._

BATES: Well, everyone, we'd better go to ground in the wine cellar then. Don't give us away, will you?

ANNA _(not smiling):_ Don't make jokes about it.

MRS PATMORE: Oh, what nonsense, Anna. I told you Mr Poirot won't be here because of you. You and Mr Bates stay where you are and take it easy.

THOMAS: While the rest of us stand guard over them with a shotgun?

_There's a silence. The others all stare at Thomas with varying expressions of alarm and disquiet._

BAXTER: Why do you say that?

_Thomas, who seems quite surprised by the effect of his words, shrugs._

THOMAS: No reason.

MOLESLEY _(jutting out his chin defiantly):_ I would, if that's what it took.

_Anna and Bates look quite touched. Mrs Patmore, walking back out to the kitchen to fetch more tea things, pats Molesley's arm in a wordless gesture of gratitude as she passes him._

**SCENE 26**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. CRAWLEY HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. EVENING**

_Poirot, Hastings and Isobel have reassembled in the drawing room at Crawley House, ready for dinner at the Abbey, Isobel in a midnight-blue evening dress, the men in black tie. Also present is Dr Clarkson, who seems to have received the same invitation. The curtains are drawn, and the clock on the wall is at twenty past seven. Hastings talks with Dr Clarkson while Poirot shares the settee by the bay window with Isobel._

POIROT: Well, Madame Crawley, I shall need a little briefing to save me from the danger of a faux-pas. I'm not familiar with the details of Lord and Lady Grantham's situation. I understand there are three grown children living with them?

ISOBEL: Two, actually, but the widower of the youngest sister has stayed on as well. He's their agent.

POIROT _(diplomatically):_ A very convenient arrangement.

ISOBEL: Oh, Tom Branson pulls his weight, that's for sure. Or he used to. He's leaving for America at the end of the month.

POIROT: Oh? Have they fallen out?

ISOBEL: No, no. Not at all. But Mr Branson wasn't born to their way of life, and he's eager to try something new.

_Somewhat muffled by the closed door in between, the door knocker is being banged loudly repeatedly against the front door of the house. Isobel looks around with a frown._

ISOBEL: Who could that be?

_There are raised voices out in the hall, then running footsteps, and the door to the drawing room bursts open. A teenage boy in rustic clothes stands there, wringing his cloth cap in his hands, red in the face and panting. Mrs Field is behind him, looking on anxiously._

BOY: Dr Clarkson, sir, please, you must come at once! It's my brother Harry, at Oak Field Farm!

_Dr Clarkson jumps to his feet._

DR CLARKSON: What's happened?

BOY _(in a breathless rush):_ We were moving machinery in the barn, and the plough fell on him. At first we thought it was just broken ribs, but now his lips are turning blue and he can barely breathe! They said at the hospital that you'd be here.

DR CLARKSON: Why didn't you ring at once? Where's my coat?

_Mrs Field comes running in with the Doctor's coat and hat._

DR CLARKSON _(pulling his coat on, to Isobel):_ Remind me to prioritise the ambulance service at the next board meeting. _(To the boy)_ I've my car here. You go ahead, I'll be right behind you. _(He turns back to Isobel.)_ Please make my excuses to Lord and Lady Grantham.

ISOBEL _(bundling him out of the door):_ Oh, don't worry, they'll understand. Good luck!

_Dr Clarkson nods to Poirot and Hastings, claps his hat on and hurries out._

ISOBEL _(with a sigh):_ Well, that's our lift to the Abbey gone. But I'll ring the Dower House. If we're lucky, she's not left yet either.

**SCENE 27**

**INT. VIOLET CRAWLEY'S CAR. NIGHT**

_The Dowager Countess of Grantham has – going by her less than enthusiastic expression – been more or less compelled to give Isobel, Poirot and Hastings a lift. The two ladies sit in the back of the car, while the men have taken the less comfortable seats opposite them, facing backwards. Isobel is concluding her account of the family that she started giving Poirot in the previous scene._

ISOBEL: And in the nursery, there is little Master George, of course, my grandson and Lord Grantham's heir, Miss Sybil, the Branson's daughter, and the family's ward, Marigold, the youngest of the bunch. She's an orphan, but she's Lady Edith's special charge now.

POIROT: Ah? Is she a relation, or the child of a friend?

ISOBEL: Neither, but Lady Edith has taken an interest in her.

POIROT: I understand. An admirable sentiment on the part of Lady Edith. Very selfless. _(To Violet, who has been sitting in silence so far)_ Don't you agree, Lady Grantham?

_The look of disapproval on Violet's face intensifies._

VIOLET: I'd always understood that it wasn't advisable to speak to a detective without a lawyer present. But if you insist, sir, then yes, I agree. Very selfless.

_Isobel rolls her eyes._

**SCENE 28**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. NIGHT**

_Robert, Cora and Tom Branson, also in evening dress, stand ready to greet their dinner guests who are just walking in at the door, the ladies in front, the two detectives following behind them. In the background, Molesley and Andy move off carrying their coats and hats. Cora steps forward, smiling._

CORA: Welcome to Downton Abbey, gentlemen. 

POIROT: It is an honour, Lady Grantham.

_He kisses her hand, then turns to bow to Robert._

ROBERT: It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr Poirot. 

CORA: Oh, you know each other?

POIROT: We've corresponded.

_Cora gives her husband an puzzled look, but it remains unanswered in the following tangle of embraces and kisses between the family members, Tom shaking hands with the detectives and introductions all around. They're still at it when Edith comes hurrying down the great staircase. She has no eye for the other guests, but addresses only Isobel._

EDITH: Aunt Isobel, please come upstairs for a moment. The children have heard that you're here, and George is absolutely refusing to go to sleep unless his grandmama reads him a bedtime story.

ISOBEL: Oh! _(With an apologetic look all around.)_ Well, I'd better go and make my peace with them.

CORA: Of course. We'll be in the drawing room.

_Isobel walks off with Edith, while the main group moves across the hall and out of sight._

**SCENE 29**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE NURSERY. NIGHT**

_In the dark and quiet room, all three Downton children are in their beds, sleeping like so many little angels, far from making any kind of trouble. Mary, also in evening dress, has been sitting by her son's bed, but now gets up and tiptoes out of the room, nodding goodnight to the nanny who is waiting by the door to take over._

**SCENE 30**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. UPSTAIRS GALLERY. NIGHT**

_Isobel and Edith arrive at the head of the stairs, talking in an urgent undertone. Edith is looking very anxious._

ISOBEL: Please don't worry. I've heard nothing to suggest any link. He can't know anything.

EDITH: But it's not that. I trust you on that. It's just – _(She's close to tears.)_ How can Papa expect me to just sit there and smile and be nice to that man all night, when he wouldn't lift a finger –

**SCENE 31**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. NURSERY CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Mary, walking away from the nursery, hears Isobel and Edith's voices, just out of sight. She peeks around the corner and sees them standing there._

ISOBEL _(to Edith):_ Couldn't you be ill, or have something else on?

EDITH: Too late for that now.

_She wipes away a tear and sniffs._

ISOBEL _(taking her gently by the shoulders):_ Listen, my dear, we're all on your side in this. We'll see it through together. It's just this one dinner.

_Edith takes a moment to calm down, but then she nods bravely. The two women turn to go back downstairs. When they're out of sight, Mary turns the corner and follows them at a distance, looking very thoughtful._

**SCENE 32**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Daisy is putting the savouries for the dinner on a baking tray, but she's working with curiously rough, careless movements, completely at odds with her usual professional pride. Andy, white gloves on his hands, is watching. He looks amused rather than surprised at her lack of effort. Mrs Patmore turns back from checking the oven where the main course is getting ready, and is not pleased at all by what she sees._

MRS PATMORE _(to Daisy):_ Careful with that!

_Mrs Hughes walks in._

MRS HUGHES _(to Mrs Patmore):_ Mr Carson's just waiting for your word.

MRPS _(irritated):_ He'll have it as soon as Miss Helter-Skelter here has finished piling all my wonderful cheese bouchées into an unsightly heap!

ANDY _(to Mrs Hughes, with a grin):_ Daisy's out of luck. 

DAISY _(annoyed):_ What's it to you?

MRS PATMORE _(to Mrs Hughes):_ I'm afraid Daisy was expecting some swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks type, but Andy's just come back from taking their coats, and he says Mr Poirot is as wide as he's tall, dresses like a dandy and has the most ridiculous moustache he's ever seen.

_Daisy scowls – and Mrs Hughes surprises the others by just standing there, thunderstruck by what she has just heard._

MRS PATMORE: What's wrong? Were you going to fancy him, too?

MRS HUGHES _(slowly):_ No. No. But I've been a fool, and no mistake.

_She walks out without another word, looking suddenly very pale._

**SCENE 33**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The family – now also including Edith and Mary - and their guests are dining in the usual Downton splendour, the table laden with delicious food and exquisite silverware. Carson, Thomas and both footmen are in attendance. They have just served the soup, and now stand in their appointed places, wooden-faced and motionless. Cora, doing her best to keep a steady flow of conversation going, addresses Poirot, who is in the place of honour on her right._

CORA: So what brings you to Yorkshire, Mr Poirot? Or is it a secret?

POIROT: Not at all, Lady Grantham. I'm on holiday.

_Across the table, Violet, who sits at Robert's side, raises her eyebrows._

VIOLET: I was not aware that Cousin Isobel had turned Crawley House into a Bed and Breakfast.  
_Isobel takes a deep, indignant breath, but Robert is quicker._

ROBERT: Cousin Isobel can use the house as she sees fit, Mama.

VIOLET: Well, we've had a war veterans' soup kitchen and a shelter for homeless music hall performers. What's it going to be next?

EDITH: I'm sure you could come up with any number of unreasonable suggestions, Granny.

_Cora glances at her daughter, frowning at her belligerent tone. Tom turns to Hastings with an awkward attempt at small talk of his own._

TOM: Are you enjoying your stay here, then?

HASTINGS: Yes, quite. I've been out shooting with Dr Clarkson's brother.

MARY: Shooting at whom, exactly? At fleeing robbers, or escaped convicts, or murderers resisting arrest?

POIROT: Alas, Lady Mary, I'm afraid you entertain very romantic notions of the work of a modern detective.

_Mary looks quite put out at the suggestion that she should entertain romantic notions about anything, ever._

ROBERT _(genially):_ Ah, we know it's all about the brainwork, nowadays. I read the accounts of the Styles trial in the papers, Mr Poirot. Marvellous work.

_Poirot inclines his head, acknowledging the compliment._

VIOLET: I thought private detectives were all about adultery, nowadays.

HASTINGS: Not really. We're very faithful chaps, as a rule.

_This makes everyone at the table laugh, which breaks the ice a bit. Hastings looks enormously pleased at having pulled off such a witty remark._

POIROT _(to Violet, sententiously):_ The scope of my work is the scope of human nature, Lady Grantham. I put no restrictions on either. I serve the truth, not custom and convention.

EDITH: What a declaration.

_As before, her tone is not friendly. Isobel looks across at her with concern._

MARY: Well, I doubt you'll find any mysteries to solve here at Downton, Mr Poirot, so this may turn out to be quite a dull holiday.

POIROT: In my experience, a house like this always has mysteries, Lady Mary.

_This comment sends a slight frisson around the table, but it's impossible to say where it originated._

VIOLET: Well, as far as I know, the last murder here at Downton occurred in 1788, when the second Earl -

ROBERT: Oh, please don't, Mama. Not with ladies present.

VIOLET _(mortally offended):_ Oh, thank you! What am I, then?

_This makes everyone chuckle again. Robert takes it on himself to keep the ball rolling._

ROBERT: Talking about mysteries, I've just remembered the most curious little thing that happened to me today and that I can't for the life of me explain. _(He has everyone's attention, and launches into his little anecdote with gusto.)_ When I was dressing for dinner, and I was putting my shoes on, I couldn't. They were full of newspaper.

_He looks around as if expecting everyone to either gasp in astonishment or burst into laughter. To his disappointment, neither is the case._

ISOBEL: Well, the shoes must have got wet, so someone stuffed them with old paper to take the damp, and then forgot to take it out again.

ROBERT: No, no! That can't have been. They're only my second best pair. I haven't worn them in months. Bates only got them out for me today because my favourite patent leathers are at the cobbler's. And he swears that he has no idea how the paper got into them.

VIOLET: Of course he does.

ROBERT: No, I believe him. Because if they'd been wet and were left full of wet paper, they'd have rotted, wouldn't they? But they were bone-dry and right as rain, pardon the pun. So, why would anyone stuff a pair of dry shoes with dry paper?

EDITH: I'm sure Mr Poirot isn't interested in such trivia, Papa.

POIROT: On the contrary, Lady Edith. The active mind relishes any such small exercises, lest it stagnate.

HASTINGS _(to Robert):_ Why didn't your man remove the paper right away when he got the shoes out for you?

ROBERT: Because he couldn't see it. It was stuffed right into the tips. As if someone meant for me to stub my toes on purpose.

MARY: Ah! In that case, I think I can read your riddle, Papa, and so can Tom.

TOM _(surprised):_ Sorry, what?  
MARY _(with a fond smile):_ Oh Tom, would you really put it past Sybbie and George to play a practical joke like that on their Donk when Bates wasn't looking?

_In the general merriment that follows this explanation, the footmen start removing the empty soup plates._

CORA: Well, I'm not sure it counts, but if we're talking about wardrobe mysteries, I'm missing a pair of gloves.

EDITH: Which ones?

CORA: The chamois ones that went so well with my beige coat. I was looking for them the other day, so Baxter turned every drawer and every box inside out, but they're gone.

MARY: Oh Mama, there's no secret there either. I borrowed them weeks ago. You were out, so I couldn't ask, and then I forgot.

CORA: But why didn't you put them back?

MARY _(guiltily):_ I'm afraid I damaged them rather badly. I burst a seam.

CORA: But Baxter could have mended that in a trice! You know how good she is with a needle.

MARY: I may have burst two or three seams, actually. I'm sure they were quite past repair. I'm ever so sorry. Please let me get you a new pair for your birthday.

_Cora shakes her head at her daughter._

CORA: Well, they'd better be as nice, or nicer.

MARY: I'll make sure of it.

ISOBEL _(looking expectantly around the table):_ Well, I hope we haven't lost anything else lately that we might need Mr Poirot's help to recover?

EDITH: Well, we lost some _one,_ but Mr Poirot apparently thought that his active mind would not relish that task enough. Or why else could he not be bothered to take our case?

_She's pointedly not looking at Poirot as she says this, feigning a tone of disdainful unconcern, but even so, her eyes are quickly filling with tears. A heavy silence follows her words._

ROBERT _(irritated):_ Edith, you forget yourself. You're talking to a guest.

CORA _(looking from Edith to Robert and back, concerned):_ I wish I knew what you're talking about.

_Poirot comes to the rescue._

POIROT: A year or so ago, Lady Grantham, your husband contacted me and asked for my assistance in resolving the disappearance of Mr Michael Gregson in Munich. I replied in the negative, I'm afraid, but I had hoped to give sufficient reasons. I see now that they were not sufficient at all.

ROBERT: They were perfectly valid, Mr Poirot, and I apologise -

ISOBEL _(quickly):_ No, no, it is I who must apologise. My words just now were very insensitive. I should have realised that I would be touching a sore spot. I certainly didn't mean to cause anyone at this table unnecessary pain.

_She looks from Poirot to Edith. Poirot inclines his head graciously, but Edith avoids her eyes._

POIROT: Nobody could accuse you of any such intentions, Madame.

_And the company at the table dares to breathe again._

**SCENE 34**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_The footmen have come downstairs to fetch the main course and gossip with the kitchen staff._

MRS PATMORE: Poor Lady Edith. Do we know why Mr Poirot turned her case down?

ANDY: No, they didn't say. 

DAISY _(loading the trays):_ All this weird talk of shoes and gloves though _. (With a grin)_ It’s a shame Mr Carson couldn’t chip in and tell them the story about his hat.

_She giggles. Andy and Mrs Patmore exchange a look._

MOLESLEY: I wish Mr Poirot would say why he's really here. I'll eat _my_ hat if he is just on a holiday.

**SCENE 35**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The dinner continues. The footmen walk around the table serving the main course._

VIOLET _(to Robert):_ Well, if we're all supposed to add a little flavour to Mr Poirot's stay here, why don't you ask him to catch our poacher?

ROBERT _(with a frown):_ What poacher?

_Everyone else looks just as clueless as he does._

VIOLET: Didn't you tell me a few weeks ago that there was a poacher loose on the estate, armed with one of your own guns?

CORA _(in a concerned tone):_ What's this about, Robert?

_But Robert has started laughing._

ROBERT: Oh, that business with the missing gun! That's done and dusted. Nothing to worry about.

VIOLET: Well, aren't you going to explain? I've had Spratt double-bar every door for a fortnight, I'd appreciate to be told if the danger has passed!

TOM _(in a rather embarrassed tone):_ It was me.

_This gets him the attention of everyone in the room. Isobel freezes holding the serving cutlery, which forces Andy, who is holding a platter with vegetables for her, to freeze in an extremely uncomfortable position, too._

CORA: Tom? What do you mean?

TOM: The 'poacher' was me.

VIOLET _(to Tom):_ You do know it's not called poaching when you shoot your own game on your family's own estate, don't you? Or have your wild friends in the government suddenly decided to change the law?

MARY: Our prime minister is a Tory, Granny.

VIOLET: Oh, is he? You could never tell.

_Andy straightens up furtively, realigning his twisted spine. With an apologetic look, Isobel puts the cutlery back. Andy nods a discreet thank you._

CORA: I'm sorry, Tom, but I think we need to hear the whole story now.

TOM: It was just me being a fool, nothing more. A couple of weeks back, I went out to Lake Kilburn to get a few birds for Mrs Patmore, and I left my gun in the duck blind there. The gamekeepers noticed it missing from the gun room, so I remembered and went back to get it. That's all there is to it. It's been cleaned, and I've used it again since. It's as good as new.

ROBERT: And no harm done. Except maybe to poor Spratt at the Dower House. _(To Violet)_ I hope you haven't made him stand watch at the door with a blunderbuss all these nights, too?

VIOLET: Well, if I have, it's your fault!

_The family laugh._

MARY _(to Poirot and Hastings):_ I assure you that if you knew my grandmother's butler, you'd find the idea very funny, too.

POIROT: I'll take your word for it, Lady Mary. _(To Robert)_ Well, I'm relieved to hear that the gun room at Downton Abbey is so carefully supervised.

HASTINGS: Oh yes. You won't believe the trouble it can cause if you leave a gun cabinet unlocked even for five minutes.

_More expressions of amusement follow, and the footmen continue their serving round. When everyone is served and the footmen step back, Poirot raises his glass._

POIROT _(to Cora):_ Lady Grantham, please let me congratulate you and your family. I have rarely been treated to such a charming string of little puzzles in such a short space of time. And behold, you have solved them all yourselves, with no help at all from Hercule Poirot! So it would be churlish of me not to repay your kindness and trust. I will admit now that your beautiful Yorkshire hills and your invigorating climate were not my only reasons for coming here.

**SCENE 36**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Molesley comes running into the kitchen, red in the face and gasping, the front of his livery liberally spattered with gravy._

MOLESLEY: Is there any more of the sauce?

MRS PATMORE: Why, what's happened?

MOLESLEY _(gesturing at the mess):_ I had a miscommunication on the subject with Mr Carson.

MRS PATMORE: Oh, bother.

_She and Daisy spring into action. Daisy tosses Molesley a damp cloth._

DAISY: Here, clean yourself up.

MOLESLEY: Thanks. Er, I'll just -

_He hurries back out into the passage and towards the servants' hall, dabbing haphazardly at the ugly stains on his snowy white shirt front._

**SCENE 37**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. NIGHT**

_Anna and Bates sit next to each other at the otherwise empty table. He's talking to her in an undertone, her hands clasped in his. Anna looks very pale and tense. They both look up sharply when Molesley appears in the doorway._

MOLESLEY: You're off the hook. Mr Poirot's looking for a missing man, not a murderer, and the name is quite different, too.

_Anna gasps with relief, her face lighting up in an instant. Bates visibly relaxes, too._

BATES: Thank you, Mr Molesley. Good news.

MOLESLEY: Have you seen Miss Baxter?

BATES: She's just gone upstairs to get a book.

ANNA _(half-rising from her chair):_ D'you want a clean shirt? I'll see what I can do.

MOLESLEY: No, never mind, no time for that. Just tell her I need to talk to her as soon as may be.

_He departs before they can reply, leaving the Bateses to look at each other in puzzled amusement._

BATES: Do you think she's in for a gravy-stained proposal? I've rarely seen him look so serious.

ANNA: I'd have said they're not quite there yet, but who knows?

_They share a giggle, silly with relief._

**SCENE 38**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The dinner continues. The company at table are now engaged in an intense discussion about the fate of Philip Coyle, except for Violet, who looks rather repelled by the whole subject._

ROBERT: And do we know anything about this Mr Coyle's situation in life?

POIROT: According to his mother, he used to work as a manservant, lastly in Egypt, for an invalid gentleman who was staying there for the warm climate. But his employer died of his bad chest some time towards the end of last year, so Mr Coyle settled the man's affairs and returned to London. His mother said that he had not yet taken a new position, as far as she knew.

CORA: Maybe he had. _(Looking around the table)_ Do we know anyone in Thirsk who has taken on a new butler or valet recently?

ROBERT _(gloomily):_ We only know people who have recently laid off their butlers and valets, I'm afraid.

ISOBEL _(to Poirot):_ I'd understood he was up here for some sort of business venture. Why else would he write to his mother that he was expecting a large sum of money soon?

CORA: Maybe he was collecting a debt?

POIROT: Alas, that is the trouble. We simply do not know what his business here in Yorkshire was. I've seen his final letter to his mother. I'm afraid it is deliberately obscure on that point. Mrs Coyle couldn’t enlighten me, either.

_Barely noticed by anyone except Carson, who gives him a very displeased look, Molesley sidles back into the room, passably cleaned up and carrying a new sauce boat on his tray._

MARY: Why do we all assume that this Mr Coyle was in Thirsk for any length of time at all? He might just have passed through, posted his letter and moved on elsewhere. He could have been at John o' Groats a day later, and no one in Thirsk any the wiser.

POIROT: But then he would not have instructed his mother to send her letters to him _poste restante_ to the post office at Thirsk, would he? It was when they came back to her as unclaimed that she began to fear the worst.

ROBERT: And this was out of character for him? There could not have been an innocent reason for him not to get in touch for a while?  
POIROT: Mrs Coyle told me that he'd been a bit wild in his younger days, but he'd settled down and been a good son to her ever since the war.

CORA _(with a sigh):_ I so feel for the poor woman. Was he her only child?

POIROT: Mrs Coyle says there were three sons originally, but Philip was the only one left to her now.

_There are murmurs of sympathy all around the table._

ROBERT: Yes, I think we can all imagine when and how she lost the other two.

**SCENE 39**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Mrs Patmore is transferring custard from a pot into a more delicate container while Andy stands by, filling the wait with another update on the situation upstairs. Daisy is clearing up in the background._

MRS PATMORE: He said _what?_

ANDY _(with a laugh):_ I know.

DAISY _(walking over to them):_ His Lordship _wants_ us to talk about their dinner conversation?

MRS PATMORE: For the first and last time!

ANDY: Well, not about all of it, but he just said to Mr Carson - _(He glances over his shoulder, but they're quite alone, so he continues in a very accurate immitation of Lord Grantham's best official tone.)_ 'Will you please see to it that the facts about Mr Coyle's disappearance are repeated word for word in the servants' hall.' Poor Mr Carson looked as if His Lordship had insulted the King.

DAISY: It makes sense though, doesn't it? If this Mr Coyle was in service, too, one of us may actually know him, or have a cousin who knows him, that sort of thing _. (Her eyes suddenly sparkle with excitement again.)_ Imagine, if _we_ could help Hercule Poirot solve the case!

MRS PATMORE _(drily):_ And what's up with the silly moustache?

DAISY: No, but really!

_Mrs Patmore places the custard on Andy's tray, and he hurries back up the stairs. Daisy is still daydreaming about becoming a detective's assistant._  
  
  
  



	4. Sunday, January 19th 1925 / Night

**SCENE 40**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The family and their guests are finishing their dessert. The talk of murder and mystery is over. Hastings is interviewing Tom Branson about his American plans. The two of them seem to have found true common ground at last._

TOM: Well, cars are where I started, so I'm really just going back to what I know best.

HASTINGS: And has your cousin been there long?

TOM: Four years. He's well established.

HASTINGS: I'm quite starting to envy you. When are you leaving?

TOM: We sail on the 29th.

_At the other end of the table, Violet has finally overcome her reservations about talking to Poirot, and addresses him directly for the first time._

VIOLET: So, Mr Poirot, if you're based in London now, what made you leave France and settle in our green and pleasant land? 

POIROT: I apologise for contradicting you, Lady Grantham, but I am not French. I am Belgian. I served my country as a police officer, until the Germans rendered it uninhabitable in 1914. Then I had no choice but to make a new home abroad.

CORA _(sincerely):_ Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.

ROBERT _(shaking his head sadly):_ The news out of Belgium were terrible at the time. Nobody could blame you for escaping from that horror.

_Even Violet looks somewhat sympathetic. There is an awkward pause._

TOM _(to Poirot):_ But it worked, didn't it? In the end, I mean? You got a new start, and you made a real success of it.

POIROT: I did, Mr Branson, but I could not pretend that it was easy. No man can ever be truly free of his past, no matter what he tells himself. _(He turns to Cora, and suddenly smiles.)_ But please do not let my past misfortunes blight this very pleasant evening. I should feel very unhappy indeed if I repayed your splendid hospitality so poorly. 

CORA _(with a smile):_ You're very kind.

_She looks around the table to see whether everyone has finished. They have, so she rises from her seat. The servants move to take the ladies' chairs, and everyone gets to their feet to see the women out – everyone except Poirot. Half-way out of his chair, he suddenly claps his hand to his lower back and lets out a strangled cry of pain. The others freeze, staring at him in shock._

POIROT: Ah, it is a pain, a terrible pain! _(His face contorts in a grimace of agony.)_ I cannot move, I dare not! Aaah!

_Isobel and Thomas are the first to come back to life. While the others – family and servants alike – look on helplessly, they rush in from either side and take Poirot's arms to prop him up._

ISOBEL: Breathe calmly, it may sort itself out.

POIROT _(miserably):_ No, no… I cannot move…

_The pain makes him double over._

THOMAS: Is the pain in the front or in the back, sir?

POIROT: In the back… low down… I'm sorry, I…

_He gasps. Thomas and Isobel exchange a look over their patient's head._

ISOBEL: Lumbago?

THOMAS: Looks like it. 

_Cora, hovering behind them, gestures to Carson to clear the chairs out of the way._

CORA: Let's get him to lie down in the drawing room. 

THOMAS: No, if it is lumbago, it won't be over in ten minutes.

CORA: Then what do we do?

**SCENE 41**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. MRS HUGHES' SITTING ROOM. NIGHT**

_Mrs Hughes, oblivious of the commotion upstairs, is seated at her little desk, going over her accounts. A sudden sound of raised voices in the passage outside her room makes her look up in surprise. The voices come closer. She gets up and walks out to inv_ _e_ _stigate._

**SCENE 42**

**INT. DOWNSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Mrs Hughes walks straight into a gaggle of downstairs residents crowding around their unusually agitated butler. The Bateses and Miss Baxter have arrived from the servants' hall, and the kitchen staff are looking on as well. Carson spots Mrs Hughes, relieved._

CARSON: There you are! Have you been hiding?  
MRS HUGHES: What on earth has happened?  
CARSON: Mr Poirot has been taken ill.

MRS HUGHES: Good heavens.

CARSON: Mr Barrow has taken charge. He's asking for the bedroom with the firmest mattress, the least draught and the shortest way to the bathroom.

MRS HUGHES: Oh, asking me to square the circle, is he?

CARSON: He also wants hot towels, Aspirin, and two of the smaller suitcases from the luggage room, though heaven knows why, and he wants all of that right now.

MRS HUGHES: Well, with the housemaids gone home for the day, I can't guarantee 'right now'. But I'll see what I can do.

_Carson nods and turns to hurry back upstairs._

ANNA _(to Mrs Hughes):_ I'll give you a hand with the room.

BAXTER: I can get the towels.

BATES: And I'll find those suitcases.

MRS HUGHES: Thank you. Well, come on, Anna. I think the Blue Room will do.

_They gather their skirts and run off._

**SCENE 43**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. NIGHT**

_Preceded by Carson, who holds the door open, Poirot is being led out of the dining room, supported on either side by Thomas and Andy. He is muttering a string of breathless apologies through clenched teeth as he hobbles along at a snail's pace. In the background, Cora is on the telephone._

**SCENE 44**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Mrs Hughes and Anna are getting the guest bedroom ready in a tearing hurry. Mrs Hughes folds dust sheets away while Anna turns down the freshly made bed. A fire has been lit in the grate. Bates enters, carrying the suitcases._

BATES: They're coming now.

MRS HUGHES: Come on, Anna, let's get out of their way.

ANNA _(plumping up the pillows on the bed):_ They can't mind if –

MRS HUGHES: No, leave that. We really should go.

**SCENE 45**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Mrs Hughes and Anna exit the Blue Room just a little too late. They're only halfway down the corridor when Poirot and his two assistants turn the corner into the passage. The women draw aside to let the men pass. Poirot, still leaning heavily on the two servants, nods to the women, then does a double take as he recognises Mrs Hughes from his trip to the asylum at Birkby Manor. Mrs Hughes meets his eyes bravely, but neither of them says a word. Thomas misreads Poirot's hesitation._

THOMAS: Just two more doors, sir, and we're there.

POIROT: Yes. Thank you. I think I can manage that.

_He creeps on._

**SCENE 46**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. NIGHT**

_The rest of the dinner party - Hastings, Robert, Tom, Mary, Edith, Violet and Isobel - have gathered in the hall. Nobody seems comfortable going on into the drawing room – or home - until the situation is resolved. Carson stands nearby waiting for orders. When the green baize door leading down to the kitchen opens and Molesley appears with the usual after-dinner coffee tray, Carson catches his eye, shakes his head and waves him back down. Cora returns from making her call. Everyone looks at her expectantly._

CORA: Dr Clarkson is currently taking that poor young man to the Royal Yorkshire for emergency surgery, but he'll be here first thing in the morning.

_Hastings looks rather unhappy about the delay, but Cora puts a reassuring hand on his arm._

CORA: Please don't worry, Captain Hastings. Our under-butler served in the Medical Corps during the war. He knows what he's doing. Your friend is in very good hands.

HASTINGS: Well, that's a relief. Thank you so much, Lady Grantham. Of course we didn't mean for the evening to end in this way, but -

ROBERT _(waving his apologies away):_ These things happen.

HASTINGS: Then I think I will take my leave now. May I call again tomorrow and bring Mr Poirot's things?

CORA: By all means, come and go as you need. Why don't you come up with the Doctor and stay for breakfast? We'll be anxious for an update.

_While Cora walks upstairs to check if Poirot is settled in and Hastings turns to Violet and Isobel to arrange their trip back down to the village, Mary sidles up to Tom. They talk in a quiet undertone._

MARY: Well done, Tom.

TOM: I thought my heart was hammering so loud they could hear it. I wish I had your sangfroid in this kind of situation.

MARY: Don't. You wouldn't be you if you had.

_They share a brief smile._

TOM: D'you think he's swallowed the story though?

MARY: Let's hope he has. _(With a disdainful look at Edith, who stands nearby)_ At any rate, better innocent than openly hostile. That's not going to get us any points at all.

EDITH _(turning around, dismayed_ ): I heard that.

MARY _(coldly):_ Good. Keep it in mind.

_But when Hastings and Isobel approach the young folk to say goodnight, a smooth smile is already back in place on Mary's face._

**SCENE 47**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_The servants – minus Carson, Thomas and Andy - are assembled in the kitchen, waiting for news and for their own dinner to start. Daisy and Mrs Patmore stand ready with steaming tureens and bowls covered with napkins. There are steps on the stairs, and Carson comes downstairs with Andy on his heels._

CARSON _(to the room at large):_ So, that's it. Mr Poirot's settled in for the night, and the ladies and Captain Hastings are safely dispatched off home.

MRS HUGHES: Do we know how long Mr Poirot will stay here?

CARSON: That'll be for the Doctor to decide.

MRS HUGHES _(with a sigh):_ And until then?

CARSON: Mr Barrow will sit with him during the night. We'll relieve him in the morning.

MRS PATMORE: Then I'd better put his dinner on a tray. Or is he supposed to go without food as well as without sleep?

CARSON _(distractedly):_ Oh, well, yes, I suppose you'd better do that. Mr Molesley, will you please take it up?

_Molesley nods, then catches Baxter’s eye. They hang back as the others start moving towards the servants' hall. While Mrs Patmore and Daisy get the extra tray ready, Mrs Hughes slips into her sitting room and comes back out with a woollen plaid folded over her arm._

BAXTER _(to Mrs Patmore):_ Maybe we can put the coffee they didn't want in a thermos, too?

MRS PATMORE: Don't make him too comfortable.

_But Mrs Hughes gives Daisy a nod over Mrs Patmore's head._

MRS HUGHES: Well, I can't pretend I'm happy about all this, but that's hardly Mr Barrow's fault.

MRS PATMORE: Isn't it? I thought that was always a safe assumption.

_Mrs Hughes gives Mrs Patmore a reproachful look. The tray is ready, and Daisy comes over with the coffee in a flask._

BAXTER _(to Molesley):_ I'll go up with you.

_She takes the flask from Daisy and the plaid from Mrs Hughes, and she and Molesley go upstairs._

**SCENE 48**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. BACK STAIRS/UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Molesley and Baxter have arrived at the baize door into the upstairs corridor. Molesley, carrying the tray, pushes it open with his shoulder and holds it for Baxter to walk through. Baxter is looking very grave, but composed._

MOLESLEY: Anyway, so now you're warned. I didn't want you to get a shock when you hear name, or make a fool of yourself like I just did in the dining room.

BAXTER: Thank you. I really appreciate it.

_They walk along the corridor together._

MOLESLEY: At any rate, it's a very common name, so it'll be just a weird coincidence. I'm sure there's nothing more to it.

BAXTER _(with a faint smile):_ I wish we could be sure, but I hope so, too.

_They have arrived at the door of the Blue Room. They exchange a look, Molesley takes a deep breath, and Baxter knocks._

**SCENE 49**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Lit by the low light from the fire in the grate and the lamps on the bedside table and on the sideboard, Poirot lies in bed. He's in one of Lord Grantham's own silk pyjamas, with hot towels packed all around him, his head comfortably propped up on the pillows and his legs raised to relieve the pressure on his lower back. His feet and calves rest on the two small suitcases that have been stacked on top of each other on the end of the bed. At the sideboard, Thomas is stirring the contents of a little paper sachet into a glass of water, then carries it over to Poirot._

THOMAS: You should drink this, sir, or you'll never sleep.

POIROT _(gesturing feebly at the bedside cabinet):_ I will, in a moment.

_His voice sounds thin and exhausted. Thomas puts the glass down._

THOMAS: Shall I renew the towels?

POIROT: No, thank you, they're still nice and warm. I feel much better already.

_He shifts, then groans. Thomas gives him a sceptical look, then squats down by the bed to arrange the covers more comfortably._

POIROT: I am causing so much trouble.

THOMAS: I don't mind. I like to be useful.

_There's a somewhat bitter undertone in his voice, but if Poirot catches it, he doesn't let it show._

POIROT: But please don't forget your own dinner. I would not have you go hungry on my account.

THOMAS: You should take that Aspirin.

_Poirot nods, but just closes his eyes again. Thomas, content now with the arrangement of the bedding, rises and walks back over to the sideboard where the tray from the kitchen stands waiting. He sits down on the edge of a chair, puts the tray on his knees, picks up knife and fork, then glances over at his patient and hesitates._

POIROT _(without opening his eyes):_ You should eat.

THOMAS: No, I – _(He puts his knife and fork down a little awkwardly.)_ I don't know, I've been watching other people eat since I was eighteen, but it feels a bit strange the other way round.

POIROT _(with his eyes still closed):_ I'm not watching.

_Thomas braces himself and starts eating. Poirot smiles._

**SCENE 50**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. MRS HUGHES' SITTING ROOM. NIGHT**

_Mrs Hughes and Carson have finally wrapped up their work for the day and are sharing a night cap, sitting at either end of her small desk._

CARSON _(shaking his head):_ I don't know, Elsie. I don't like it. A detective taking up residence at Downton Abbey? What will people say?

MRS HUGHES: Well, they'll say that Lord and Lady Grantham were very kind to offer shelter and care to a man when he fell ill far from home.

CARSON: I don't mean that.

MRS HUGHES: I know. And I can tell you, I won't breathe easy either until we see the back of him. If only for Becky's sake.

CARSON: Ah, don't you worry about that. Your care for your sister has been exemplary all these years, and you should not have to feel ashamed of her.

MRS HUGHES: I know, but –

CARSON: Well, all I can say is this: In spite of his smooth talk and foreign ways, Mr Poirot strikes me as gentleman enough to keep an honourable secret, should the need arise.

MRS HUGHES _(with a sigh):_ From your lips to God's ear.

**SCENE 51**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Thomas has finished his meal and gets up quietly to put the tray back on the sideboard. The faint clanking of china makes Hercule Poirot turn his head and open his eyes._

POIROT: Is it true that you were a medic in the war?

THOMAS: Quite true, yes.

POIROT: But you've never thought to make nursing your profession in civilian life?

THOMAS: Not really. After two years on the front, helping other men to die had rather lost its appeal.

POIROT _(gravely):_ Don't decry yourself, Mr Barrow. You have a caring touch that is rare even among those who make a living from it.

_There's a moment of silence, then Thomas shakes his head._

THOMAS: I'm not going back there.

POIROT: No. And I ask your forgiveness for suggesting it.

_Another pause._

THOMAS: I've been to your country, you know. To Flanders. At the start of the war, before they threw everyone and everything they had at the Somme. I've seen the smoking ruins and the endless treks of refugees and all that.

POIROT: Yes. And these things have a curious way of staying with you, don't they.

_Thomas nods._

POIROT: And was it at the Somme that you were wounded?

THOMAS: Yes. _(He looks down at his left hand, where the glove hides his scar.)_ I was lucky to get off so lightly.

POIROT: No permanent damage?

THOMAS _(flexing his fingers tentatively):_ Well, the bones mended, the nerves never quite did, but you learn to compensate.

POIROT: It barely seems to hamper you now.

THOMAS: That's how I want it to be.

**SCENE 52**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. CORA'S BEDROOM. NIGHT**

_A single lamp on Robert's side of the bed is still on. Cora is in bed, curled up on her side and facing away from the door, when Robert tiptoes into the room. He takes off his dressing gown and slips into bed, careful not to disturb his wife. Cora turns over._

CORA _(sleepily):_ Why did you never tell me you'd been in touch with him about Michael Gregson?

_Robert sighs._

ROBERT: Because nothing came of it. Edith asked me to write to him, and I did, but he wrote back that he didn't take German cases. I find that perfectly understandable, given his history, but I'm afraid Edith thought it was just some lame pretext. I tried to explain. She wouldn't have any of it.

CORA: Poor Edith.

ROBERT: I know. Poirot recommended some German detective instead. But it turned out that he was the same who was already working for Gregson's company anyway. So that was the end of it. I meant to tell you, but I'm afraid I forgot.

CORA: I don't blame her.

ROBERT: Well, I don't blame her for still loving a decent man who died a senseless, awful death. But I do blame her for being rude to our guest. If Isobel hadn't stepped in so gallantly…

_He leans over to switch off the light. His wife's voice comes to him through the darkness._

CORA: I still don't blame her.


	5. Monday, January 20th 1925 / Early Morning

**SCENE 53**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. NIGHT**

_The place is dark and quiet, except for the light behind one set of windows on the upper floor. The plaintive cry of a tawny owl can be heard from somewhere off in the trees._

**SCENE 54**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_The guest bedroom is in utter silence. The only sources of light are some smouldering embers in the grate and a single lamp on the sideboard, turned away from the bed not to disturb the patient. Poirot, his legs returned to their normal position, is deep under the covers, sleeping like a baby. The glass with the Aspirin solution is still on his bedside cabinet, untouched. Thomas, still in the chair by the sideboard, is drinking coffee from Mrs Patmore's flask. He glances across at the mantel clock and sighs. It's twenty minutes to two._

**SCENE 55**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_At a quarter to three, Thomas gets up from his chair and tiptoes over to the fireplace to put some fresh logs on. The low scraping noise seems to reach the ear of Hercule Poirot, but he merely turns over onto his side and sleeps on. Thomas watches the sleeper for a moment with narrowed eyes. Poirot's face is relaxed and serene, giving no indication whatsoever of the crippling pain that he complained of when he was awake. Thomas' lip curls._

**SCENE 56**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_By four o'clock, in a display of rank indiscipline that would stun Carson the butler, Thomas has made himself at home and actually drifted off to sleep himself in a comparably comfortable armchair by the fire. He has moved the stack of suitcases over there to serve as an impromptu footstool, taken off his tailcoat, got rid of his stiff collar and tie and pulled Mrs Hughes' plaid up to his chin. He opens his eyes at the very soft chimes from the clock on the sideboard and, stifling a yawn, gets to his feet. He walks over to a widow, draws the aside curtain and looks out into the darkness and silence of the park. Dawn is still a long way off. When Thomas turns back towards the bed, he looks ready to murder the man in it. Poirot sleeps on, oblivious._

**SCENE 57**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. DAWN**

_To the faint song of a solitary blackbird somewhere outside in the still pitch darkness, Hercule Poirot finally stirs. In duty bound, Thomas shakes off his own stupor and pushes himself out of his armchair. By the time Poirot rolls over onto his back and opens his eyes, Thomas is standing by the bedside._

POIROT: Ah, Mr Barrow. You're still here. How kind. _(He makes a move as if to sit up.)_ I'm embarrassed to say it, but I'm afraid I have to go to the bathroom now.

THOMAS: I'm happy to show you where it is, sir, but I very much doubt that you need my assistance to get there.

_The two men stare at each other for a moment, sizing each other up like a pair of duellists. The cat is out of the bag, and they both know it. But then Poirot shakes his head and chuckles._

POIROT: Ah, I was a fool to try and trick a trained nurse, I see that now. _(He sits up properly, dropping all pretense of feeling pain when he moves.)_ Though I was hoping that sudden attacks of lumbago would not have been a common complaint on the front.

THOMAS: Ten a penny, sir. Moving artillery pieces and lifting ammunition crates will do that even to a young man's back. But I've never seen any of them sleep as long and peacefully as you just did, not unless they were full of morphine.

_Poirot has the grace to blush._

POIROT: I feel quite guilty now for subjecting you to such a pitiful performance. I had hoped to be more convincing.

THOMAS: How on earth are you planning to get this past Dr Clarkson?

POIROT: I am not. It is bad enough that I insulted you. I will not insult him as well. _(A pause)_ I notice that you don't ask me the reason for this whole charade.

THOMAS: Would you tell me if I did?

POIROT: I might.

THOMAS: Depending on …what exactly?

_They have definitely got the measure of each other now, and they're both rather enjoying themselves._

POIROT: Well, to start with, I'd much appreciate it if, for the moment, the true state of my health were to remain unknown to anyone except you, Dr Clarkson and my friend Hastings. I promise not to abuse Lord and Lady Grantham's hospitality for a moment longer than is absolutely necessary.

THOMAS: Of course. Anything else?

_He's right in his element._

**SCENE 58**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE WOOD SHED. DAWN**

_In the small timber outbuilding in the kitchen courtyard, Thomas is elbow-deep in the rough wooden crates in which old newspapers are collected for kindling. In the very faint morning gloom, he is feeling more than looking around. Under a stack of neatly folded papers, his hand closes around a wad of crumpled ones. He pulls it out, and in his hands, the wad separates into two halves, each unmistakably crushed into shape to fit inside the tip of a shoe. Thomas smiles triumphantly, but then perks up his ears at the distant sound of a door closing and whips around to face whoever's coming._  
  


  
**SCENE 59**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. KITCHEN COURTYARD. DAWN**

_Daisy, dressed for work and with an extra woollen cardigan around her shoulders, steps out of the back door and into the cold morning air. She crosses the yard to the wood shed, carrying an empty basket. She frowns when she finds the door unlatched and standing ajar._  
  


  
**SCENE 60**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE WOOD SHED. DAWN**

_Daisy enters and finds herself face to face with Thomas._

DAISY _(startled):_ Mr Barrow! What are you doing in here?

THOMAS: I might ask the same of you.

_The two balls of newspaper that he just found are nowhere to be seen now._

DAISY: Gertie's away for her niece's christening, so I'm doing the fires in the ladies' rooms today. Have you run out of wood for Mr Poirot's? You could have rung.

THOMAS: I felt like stretching my legs.

_He turns and picks up a few logs._

DAISY: How is he? Will he still be investigating? _(With badly suppressed excitement)_ I mean, if there's anything he needs done, or anything he wants to know...

THOMAS _(disdainfully):_ Dream on, Daisy. Why on earth would Hercule Poirot need us for anything other than keeping him warm and fed and comfortable?

_He brushes past her with his armful of firewood and walks out. Daisy watches him leave, deeply disappointed._  
  


**SCENE 61**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. MORNING**

_The servants are assembled just ahead of breakfast, standing in little groups and chatting excitedly. Carson comes in. All talk ceases, and everyone turns to look at him expectantly. He seems rather displeased at so much undisguised curiosity._

CARSON: Well, the Doctor has arrived, and that's all the news there is.

_He moves to stand behind his chair, and so do the others. Only Thomas' place remains empty. Daisy arrives from the kitchen carrying the teapot and waits in the doorway for them to settle down. Carson, however, isn't finished yet._

CARSON: Since we established last night that none of you have anything of substance to contribute to the matter of Mr Philip Coyle's disappearance, we will please dispense with baseless speculation and conjecture now, too. I'm sure Mr Poirot is too ill to continue his investigation at the moment, and –

_He breaks off as Thomas sidles into the room, still looking rather dishevelled from his nightshift - collar awry, dark circles under his eyes, badly in need of a shave. Carson looks at him in astonishment._

CARSON: Good morning, Mr Barrow. Are you trying to establish a new standard of acceptable dress and grooming for a servant in this house?

THOMAS: I'll be back in shape in time for the upstairs breakfast, Mr Carson.

_He walks over to take his place between Mrs Hughes and Anna. Mrs Hughes gives him a somewhat apologetic look while Carson harrumphs and then continues his little speech._

CARSON: Well, as I was saying, once Mr Poirot is well again, he will no doubt take himself and his affairs away from here, and they will no longer be our concern, or the family's. So before any more of you fall prey to the curse of gossip and sensationalism, we will now consider this whole subject closed.

_These words are met with the carefully non-committal silence that the downstairs community usually employs to express hearty disagreement with their butler's plans and opinions. At the end of the table, the younger housemaids and the hall boys are shifting uncomfortably in their seats, not happy to be deprived of their favourite topic of conversation. The senior members of staff are mostly keeping their own counsel, but the looks they exchange say clearly that none of them believe that they've heard the end of this, either. The only exception is Mrs Hughes._

MRS HUGHES _(looking around the table):_ In other words, we don't want Downton Abbey to get a bad press for being connected to one of Mr Poirot's cases. Or any press at all.

DAISY: But we'd be famous, wouldn't we?

CARSON _(indignantly):_ Are you familiar with the difference between fame and notoriety, Daisy? This Mr Coyle sounds like a rather shady character to me, with his unknown business venture and his secrecy and leaving his own mother in the lurch like that. We'd be doing the family a great disservice if we gave Mr Poirot, or anyone else for that matter, the impression that the answer to his riddle somehow lay in this house or with anyone in it.

_Mrs Hughes nods emphatically. Carson, his sermon delivered, finally sits down. With much scraping of chairs, the others follow his example. Daisy puts the teapot down on the table and departs in quite a huff. The toast and the teapot are handed around and the meal begins. Bates turns to Molesley, who sits next to him._

BATES _(in an undertone):_ What's got into Mrs Hughes? She's never cared before what the papers write.

MOLESLEY _(with a shrug):_ I think she's right.

_Bates doesn't seem quite convinced. Meanwhile, Anna is talking to Thomas, who is wolfing down his breakfast as if there'll never be another._

ANNA: So is he a very demanding patient?

THOMAS: You could say that. By four o'clock, I was ready to smother him with his own pillow.

BAXTER _(sympathetically):_ Well, you do look rather beat-up.

THOMAS: And you've got strawberry jam on your chin.

_Embarrassed, Baxter dabs at her chin with her napkin, but of course there's nothing there._

MOLESLEY _(to Thomas, highly irritated):_ 'Thank you for the rug and the coffee, Miss Baxter.'

THOMAS: Yes, funnily enough, Mr Molesley, I could tell they weren't _your_ idea.

_Bates and Anna share an eyeroll across the table._

MRS HUGHES: Now, now. Any more of this and you'll make the milk curdle!

**SCENE 62**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. MORNING**

_In the guest bedroom, Hercule Poirot, Captain Hastings and Dr Clarkson are holding a council of war. Poirot sits upright in bed, comfortably supported by a stack of pillows at his back, while Hastings perches on the end of the bed. Dr Clarkson has pulled up a chair. His doctor's bag is beside him on the floor, unopened._

DR CLARKSON _(with a chuckle):_ Offended? I'm not offended, Mr Poirot. Every man who does not need my services is a blessing. But I'm intrigued. What made you so sure that you needed to take up quarters right inside the house to get ahead?

HASTINGS _(to Poirot, shrewdly):_ It was the footman dropping the gravy boat, wasn't it? When you told them about Philip Coyle at dinner last night? _(To Dr Clarkson)_ As if on cue. Gravy all over the sideboard, the very moment Poirot mentioned the name.

DR CLARKSON: Who did that? 

HASTINGS: The older one.

DR CLARKSON _(with a laugh):_ Oh! Then I wouldn't read too much into it. Mr Molesley is of a naturally nervous disposition. Always has been.

POIROT: Do you know the man well?

DR CLARKSON: I dare say. He's from a local family. He used to be butler and valet to Mrs Crawley and her son at Crawley House when they first came here, before the war. They've kept him on here after Mr Matthew's death. An act of kindness, originally, but I'm sure they're getting their money's worth out of him. He's very loyal, and very diligent, if rather anxious.

POIROT: I'm sure you're right, Doctor.

HASTINGS _(to Poirot, somewhat disppointed):_ So it wasn't the gravy?

POIROT: No, Hastings, the incident with the gravy boat was, as you English say, merely the cherry on the cake. I had already resolved by then that I needed to speak with the servants. I could not do that as a mere dinner guest, but if I stayed overnight, preferably as an invalid, the opportunities would occur quite naturally.

DR CLARKSON: Speak with them about what? What link is there between Philip Coyle and Downton Abbey?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ Ah, Doctor, that's what I'm here to find out.

_He turns to the bedside cabinet and pulls the top drawer open. From it, he retrieves two folded sheets of newspaper, still rather creased. Poirot flattens them with his hand. The others lean in to look, frowning._

POIROT: Two pages torn from The Times of January 6th of this year, found yesterday evening by His Lordship's valet, stuffed into His Lordship's second best dinner shoes.

HASTINGS _(thunderstruck):_ January 6th! The day Philip Coyle disappeared!

POIROT: Just so, mon ami.

HASTINGS: How did you know that?

POIROT: I did not, until I saw the date on here with my own eyes. I was merely being curious. But look what it turned up.

HASTINGS: Wait, are you saying there's a deeper meaning to Lady Grantham's missing gloves, too? And to Mr Branson's mislaid gun?

POIROT: I'm pleased to hear that you've been paying such close attention, Hastings. I can't tell, not yet. But can you blame me for wondering, when all these seemingly insignificant incidents kept piling up?

HASTINGS _(awkwardly):_ Well, I can't say I find it entirely honourable, Poirot, to deceive Lord and Lady Grantham in this way.

POIROT _(with a twinkle in his eyes):_ But it is so very efficient. Think, gentlemen – who cares for His Lordship's shoes? Who looks after Her Ladyship's wardrobe? Who maintains the guns? The servants, not the family. It is they who hold the key to these mysteries.

DR CLARKSON _(nodding at the newspaper):_ And you've already got Mr Barrow on your side, I see.

POIROT: Oh yes. Once he'd forgiven me for cheating him out of a good night's sleep, he was most eager to help.

DR CLARKSON _(drily):_ I dare say he was.

HASTINGS: What do you mean, Doctor?

DR CLARKSON: Well, I won't betray any secrets when I tell you that Mr Barrow is not universally popular with his fellow workers. He's been here for a long time, but he's had his troubles, and I should warn you, Mr Poirot, that he might not be assisting you for quite such selfless reasons as he wants you to think.

POIROT: I'll keep it in mind.

_This has, of course, already occurred to him long since._

HASTINGS: So what's the plan now?

POIROT _(to the Doctor):_ Now, I would very much appreciate it, Dr Clarkson, if you could give my friend Hastings a convincing reason why he has to take an urgent trip to Thirsk today. That is, after all, where we lost track of Philip Coyle, and thus the natural place to start looking.

HASTINGS _(with a frown):_ Didn't I suggest exactly the same thing two days ago?

POIROT _(pleasantly):_ Of course you did, mon ami. What made you think that you were wrong?

**SCENE 63**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. MORNING**

_Meanwhile in the servants' hall, breakfast has ended. Daisy and a kitchen maid clear away the dishes. Anna and Baxter have already left to dress the ladies, and the housemaids are crowding around Mrs Hughes to get their days' work organised. Thomas is the last one to push himself to his feet._

THOMAS _(to Carson):_ So d'you want me in the dining room, or should I take up Mr Poirot's breakfast first?

_Carson looks his exhausted under-butler up and down and finally takes some pity._

CARSON: Well, I admit that I can't think of a single task this morning that would be improved by your directing a constant string of unpleasantries at your fellow workers, so I suggest that you go up to your room now and don't show your face again down here until well after luncheon. Meanwhile, I'm sure Mr Molesley or Andrew will be happy to look after Mr Poirot's needs in addition to their other duties.

_Andy and Molesley send a joint look in Mrs Hughes' direction that can only be decribed as a silent cry for help. Bates sees it._

BATES _(quickly):_ I could do it, Mr Carson. Once I've dressed His Lordship, I've got nothing urgent on.

CARSON: Oh? That's very kind of you, Mr Bates. If you're quite sure?

_Bates shrugs 'why not'._

ANDY: Does someone really have to sit with him all the time just because he can't reach the bell?

CARSON: Well, what do you suggest, Andrew? That we leave the door open and tell him to shout?

_He watches his subordinates file out of the room in disgruntled silence until he and Mrs Hughes are the only ones left. Then he lowers his voice to speak to her privately._

CARSON: I think I'll have to tell him about my hat, though.

MRS HUGHES: What? But you just said -

CARSON: I know, but what if Mr Poirot finds out on his own and thinks I have something to hide?

MRS HUGHES _(with a chuckle):_ Well, have you?

_Carson gives her an injured look._

CARSON: What I meant is, I'd rather Mr Poirot found out about it from me than from Mr Barrow. He'll manage to put a sinister spin even on a something as trivial as a mislaid bowler hat.

MRS HUGHES: Well, you must do what you think best.

CARSON: I'm not happy about Mr Barrow cosying up to our guest like that.

MRS HUGHES: Neither am I, to be honest, but it'll be good for him to have something to do.

CARSON: You talk as if this house runs itself!

_There's a dull thud, a shriek from one of the housemaids and then a crash of broken china in the passage outside, followed by angry shouting. By the sound of it, a hall boy is being told in no uncertain terms what a stupid clot he is to swing his toolbox like a golf club._

MRS HUGHES _(with a sigh):_ Where on earth would I get that idea?


	6. Monday, January 20th 1925 / Morning to Afternoon

**SCENE 64**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. MORNING**

_The family, even Cora and Mary, are assembled in the dining room for breakfast, attended by Carson. Dr Clarkson has already left again, but Hastings is there with the promised update on Poirot's condition. Considering that this is not really where his talents lie, he's being quite convincing._

CORA: I'm so sorry he's not much better.

HASTINGS: Well, Dr Clarkson said that these things need time. But Poirot told me he had a very restful night.

ROBERT: Glad to hear it. I hope he knows that if there's anything he needs, he just has to ask.

HASTINGS: Thank you, Lord Grantham, that's very generous. As a matter of fact, I have a request of my own. I'd very much appreciate a lift to the station. Dr Clarkson has given me a prescription for a warming salve and recommended the pharmacy in Thirsk. He says they make it particularly well there.

_Cora immediately turns to Tom._

CORA: Tom, didn't you say you had an errand in Thirsk today, too? _(To Hastings)_ Tom could easily take you there and back in the car. Save you a lot of time.

_Neither Tom nor Hastings look particularly happy at this prospect, but Cora and Robert are both looking so expectantly at Tom that he really has no choice._

TOM: Erm, yes, I can do that. Of course. I need to see the nurseryman, but it won't take long.

ROBERT: Good, that's settled then.

MARY: Oh, Tom, I've just remembered, I've still got a couple of questions about that new plantation.

TOM: Well, let's hear them.

MARY: No, no, we don't want to bore Captain Hastings by talking shop at the breakfast table. Let's meet up in the agent's office just before you go, shall we?

TOM _(catching on):_ Oh, yes. Sure. Let's do that.

**SCENE 65**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. MORNING**

_Poirot, back in ailing patient mode, has just finished the breakfast that has been brought up for him on a bed tray. Bates, volunteering as promised, removes the tray from Poirot's lap. The latter sinks back into his pillows with a deep sigh. In the background, in the corner by the door, Andy is working on a project of his own. He has taken off his shoes, climbed onto one of the chintz-covered chairs and is attacking the wall above the door with a small hand brace. A wooden tool box stands close at hand on the sideboard._

BATES _(to Poirot):_ It's good to see you eat with such a hearty appetite, sir. My wife said that you could barely stand last night.

POIROT: Your wife, Mr Bates?

BATES: She helped get your room ready. Anna. She's maid to Lady Mary.

_Bates limps over to the sideboard, where he's left his walking stick, and puts the tray down._

POIROT: This house is full of surprises.

BATES: Well, a lot of us have worked here together since before the war. You get to know each other.

POIROT: And I'm quite touched that you all seem to have come back when the war was done.

BATES _(gesturing at his bad knee):_ Oh, that. That goes back even longer, I'm afraid.

POIROT: Ah?

BATES: I was His Lordship's batman in the South African war.

POIROT _(with a smile):_ Now I am very touched indeed.

BATES _(with genuine pride in his voice):_ This is a good house, Mr Poirot, and a good family to work for.

_He walks over to the foot of the bed where the suitcases still stand, and restacks them on the end of the bed, then helps Poirot put his feet up again. Poirot obliges with a very believable groan. In the background, Andy is driving a row of small lamp hooks into the holes he's made in the wall._

POIROT _(to Bates):_ Thank you. Tell me, Mr Bates, as both Lord Grantham's valet and a former soldier, I assume you also look after His Lordship's guns?

_Bates leans over to smooth down the bedcovers. The move conveniently hides the traces of a knowing smile on his face. When he straightens up, it is quite gone again._

BATES: Not really, no. I know how guns work, of course, but I'm not keen. Not any more.

POIROT: So the gun room is in the sole charge of the gamekeepers?

BATES: Theoretically, yes, but there's another set of keys in Mr Carson's pantry. It's not worth bothering the outside staff every time Mr Branson goes out for a few birds or a brace of coneys.

POIROT: He is a keen hunter, Mr Branson?

BATES: He likes to play it down, modest man that he is, but he's an excellent shot, that's for sure.

_Poirot raises his head to look across at Andy, who has been quietly working away at the wall all this time._

POIROT: And you, Andrew? Do you enjoy handling the guns?  
_Andy turns around on his chair, blushing._

ANDY: Oh, not me, sir. I hardly know which end's the dangerous one. _(Both Bates and Poirot chuckle.)_ That is, I know Mr Branson's favourite, so I can get it for him if he wants it, but other than that…

BATES: Andrew is a city lad, and he's too young to have been in the war.

POIROT: Ah.

_Andy jumps down from his chair and retrieves a long piece of stout string from the tool box. He ties it to the bell pull, then climbs up again and starts threading the other end through the new row of hooks along the wall towards Poirot's bed. It comes down directly above the bedside cabinet, within easy reach of Poirot's hand. Andy ties the end into a neat loop._

ANDY: Can you get to it, sir?

_Poirot reaches across and gives the string a pull. It transmits perfectly to the original bell pull in the corner._

POIROT: Most ingenious, Andrew. I'm much obliged to you.

ANDY: Then I'd better pack up and tell them it was just a trial run.

_He puts his shoes back on, collects his tools and leaves._

POIROT _(to Bates):_ But surely there are some sporting men among the staff, in this corner of the world? I hear your Mr Molesley is a local man. I imagine he grew into it right from childhood?

BATES: Oh no, not at all. I don't want to speak ill of Mr Molesley. He's a hard worker and a very decent soul. But he and loud bangs are really not a good combination, and I assume the same goes for the sight of blood. No, if you need an expert opinion on all things to do with the guns, it's Mr Barrow you want. 

POIROT _(pensively):_ Is it, indeed.

_Bates gives him a searching look, but Poirot just smiles the awkward moment away._

**SCENE 66**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE AGENT'S OFFICE. MORNING**

_Tom and Mary are inside the agent's office, arguing. Tom looks extremely unhappy about the task he's been saddled with. Mary disagrees._

MARY _(urgently):_ No, Tom, on the contrary, this is a godsend! Just don't let him out of your sight. You need to be our eyes and ears. See what he's up to, where he goes, who he talks to…

TOM: D'you think it's possible that there's a link?

MARY: I hope to God there isn't, but as long as we don't know, we can't just lean back and wait what happens!

TOM: You mean I should try and throw him off the scent?

MARY: No, we can't risk that, either. Captain Hastings doesn't look like the sharpest tool in the shed to me, but he'll report back to Poirot. And we shouldn't underestimate _him_ just because he looks like the perfect silly foreigner. No, just watch and listen. Don't try and be clever, please. Just do what you do best.

TOM _(with a wry grin):_ You mean 'shut up and drive the car'?

_Mary's intent expression dissolves into an affectionate smile. She takes his hand and squeezes it._

MARY: Good luck.

**SCENE 67**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. MORNING**

_Andy comes downstairs, carrying the toolbox. Mrs Patmore, alone for the moment, looks up from kneading dough in a bowl._

MRS PATMORE: Ah, back from the lion's den?

ANDY _(not smiling):_ It's not funny. I couldn't wait to get out of there. _(He looks over his shoulder and continues in a lower tone.)_ He was extremely interested in the guns. Who handles them, and so on.

_On the other side of the room, unseen by either of them, Daisy has stepped out of the scullery. She stands there listening to the rest of the conversation._

MRS PATMORE: Well, the gun won't talk. Just see to it that _you_ don't.

ANDY _(anxiously):_ Suppose someone saw me?

MRS PATMORE: You know what the story is. If Mr Branson can stick to it, then so can you.

_A hall boy arrives to relieve Andy of the toolbox, cutting their confidences short. Daisy silently withdraws into the scullery, looking deeply unsettled._

**SCENE 68**

**EXT. THIRSK. A STREET. MORNING**

_Tom Branson and Hastings, travelling in an open car with Tom at the wheel, have reached the outskirts of the town. Tom seems to have regained his confidence, and they're back on their common ground. Hastings is holding on to his hat as they smoothly round a corner._

HASTINGS _(enthusiastically):_ Ah, she handles beautifully!

_Tom grins with proprietary pride._

TOM: She does, doesn't she? If you like, you can take her back.

HASTINGS _(in a longing tone):_ I'd love to, but…

_The street descends and opens into a small square. Tom stops the car, shuts off the engine and points._

TOM: The pharmacy is just over there. Shall I wait here, or do we meet up again later?

HASTINGS _(hesitantly):_ To be honest, Mr Branson, I have some other errands to run for Mr Poirot as well, and they could take quite some time. Maybe it's better if we say good bye now and I catch the train back after all.

TOM: Oh, I've got nothing else on, I don't mind tagging along.

HASTINGS: I can't steal your time.

TOM _(with a disarming smile):_ Please don't laugh at me, Captain Hastings. But I think I can guess why you're here. And the little boy inside me feels like there's a dream about to come true. Please let me come investigating with you.

HASTINGS _(faintly amused):_ Oh, really? I'm afraid it's going to be rather dull work, plodding from pub to pub and hotel to hotel…

TOM: We'll stop at the best one for lunch. I can show you which.

_He opens the car door and gets out, concluding the matter. Hastings follows._

**SCENE 69**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. THE DOWER HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. MORNING**

_Isobel is paying a visit to Violet at the Dower House. The two ladies sit facing each other across a table. This is a crisis meeting, not a pleasant social call._

ISOBEL _(aghast):_ You want him thrown out of the house? Now? In his condition? That's heartless, even for you.

VIOLET: I'd be doing you all a favour, mark my words.

ISOBEL: I don't understand what you've got against him. I found him a polite and undemanding guest, and both interesting and easy to talk to.

VIOLET: Yes, that's just what I fear, that you're all talking to him far too much.

ISOBEL: What are you afraid of?

VIOLET: I'm telling you, my dear, that this horrid little man is a complete - and - utter - fraud.

_She raps her knuckles on the table for emphasis at these last words. Isobel is taken aback by this wild accusation._

ISOBEL: I beg your pardon? He's all over the papers, has been for years. Of course he's real. You can't build a reputation like that on nothing!

VIOLET: Oh, I don't mean this detective thing. And I grant you that it's hard to tell with foreigners, but I'm absolutely convinced that he's at the very least a terrible hypochondriac, and at worst, a malingerer!

ISOBEL: What makes you say that?

VIOLET: Dear Cousin Isobel, I can tell that you've never had an acute attack of lumbago in your life. But I have. And it never left me any breath to spare for even one polite platitude. But we still heard a plethora of those from him after he was 'taken ill' last night.

ISOBEL: Well, polite platitudes have never been your forte, so…

VIOLET: And I could never have walked on my own two feet even to the door of the dining room, never mind all the way upstairs.

ISOBEL: These things are different for everyone. Besides, what would be the point of him playing sick?

VIOLET: Isn't it obvious?

ISOBEL: You mean he's spying on the family? What for?

VIOLET: "A house like this always has mysteries."

_There is a pause. Isobel leans back in her chair._

ISOBEL: Is there anything I ought to know?

VIOLET _(indignantly):_ Huh, no! That's exactly the point I'm trying to make!

**SCENE 70**

**INT. THIRSK. A PUB. MORNING**

_It's a modest establishment, and too early to be open yet. The chairs are still on the tables, and the elderly landlord is the only person in the room, drying glasses behind the bar. Tom Branson and Hastings enter, taking off their hats._

LANDLORD: We open at eleven, gentlemen.

HASTINGS: We're not here to endanger your licence. We're looking for a man who might have stayed here earlier this month, in one of your rooms.

_The landlord's eyes immediately narrow._

LANDLORD _(suspiciously):_ Are you the police?

HASTINGS: Er, no. We're acting on behalf of his family.

_The landlord is not convinced._

TOM _(quickly):_ It's about an inheritance. He might be in for some money, we just need to find him.

LANDLORD _(relieved):_ Ah. That sounds better. Let me check the register. What was the name again?

_He walks off to get the books. Hastings and Tom exchange a look, touchingly proud of their craftiness._

**SCENE 71**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. MORNING**

_Thanks to Andy's clever extension of the bell pull, Poirot is finally alone in his room, stretched out on his back with his hands folded under his chin, deep in thought. There is a knock on the door, and it opens to admit Carson. Poirot turns his head._

POIROT: Mr Carson. How kind of you to look in. You give me the chance to thank you and your people for your kind care of me.

CARSON: I hope you find everything to your satisfaction, sir, as far as the circumstances allow?

_He glances up at Andy's construction and winces a little when he sees the holes in the wall, already regretting that he gave his subordinates permission to make their lives easier._

POIROT _(quickly):_ This is a great improvement for everyone involved, Mr Carson. I applaud the young man who came up with it.

CARSON: Yes, well… _(He straightens up and puts his hands behind his back.)_ I just wanted to let you know, sir, that in accordance with His Lordship's wishes, I asked the assembled staff at our dinner last night whether they had ever heard of a Mr Philip Coyle, and knew anything about his disappearance. But they all replied in the negative. 

POIROT: Yes, I would have expected nothing else.

_If there is a trace of irony in his voice, Carson misses it completely._

CARSON: But of course, I could also not help hearing His Lordship tell you of the children's prank with his shoes, and Lady Grantham mentioning her lost gloves. Since you expressed an interest in these matters…

POIROT: I did, Mr Carson, and I feel that there is something you wish to tell me. Please to sit down. 

_He gestures to the chair by the bedside. Carson hesitates, then perches uncomfortably on the very edge of the chair._

CARSON: I don't wish to waste your valuable time, sir, but I thought I should tell you that I, too, am missing a piece of my wardrobe. 

_Poirot looks Carson up and down as if he's expecting the butler not to be fully dressed, but this escapes Carson, too. He clears his throat._

CARSON: It may seem unlikely, sir, but I'm engaged to be married. 

_Which earns Carson the honour of being the first person in the house who has managed to spring a genuine surprise on Poirot today._

POIROT: Oh. _(He smiles.)_ Congratulations. 

CARSON _(in the same grave tone as before):_ Yes. To our housekeeper, Mrs Hughes.

POIROT: I'm delighted to hear it. 

CARSON: And when we got ready to go out for dinner at a restaurant a couple of weeks ago, to celebrate this happy prospect, I couldn't find my hat. I had given it to the hall boys for a brushing, and they swore that they put it on the hat rack near the back door, but it wasn't there. I ended up having to borrow Mr Barrow's. I had a headache all night.

POIROT: I find that completely understandable.

_He really can't make Carson smile._

CARSON: At any rate, it never turned up again.

POIROT: What kind of hat was it?

CARSON: A simple black bowler hat, sir, but of good quality. It would still have served me for a few years.

_Poirot hums pensively and puts his hands back under his chin. Carson gets to his feet._

CARSON: I'm tiring you out. I apologise that I've bothered you with such frivolous talk.

POIROT _(gravely):_ No, no. It is not frivolous at all, Mr Carson. I thank you for bringing the matter to my attention. If you could just confirm to me one more little detail. This whole vexing affair took place on or shortly before January 6th, did it not?

 _Carson_ ' _s astonished expression is answer enough._

**SCENE 72**

**INT. THIRSK. VARIOUS PUBS, HOTELS AND GUESTHOUSES. DAY**

_Having been unsuccessful at their first point of enquiry, Tom Branson and Hastings have embarked on the sober version of a pub crawl through the little market town. They can be seen standing at various bars and reception desks of inns and lodging houses, talking to landlords, stout guesthouse matrons and receptionists of varying shape and form, some of them more willing than others to go through their books in search of Philip Coyle, but all of them ending by shaking their heads. In more than one pub they enter, Tom is greeted as a known and trusted face. In one where he gets a cheery wave from the publican and particularly friendly nods from some of the patrons when they enter, they settle down at a small table to have a bar meal for lunch. The landlord serves them himself, lingers to listen to their story, and returns to their table with his register so they can go through it themselves. The locals crowd around curiously. But here, too, their enquiry ends with heads being shaken all around._

**SCENE 73**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Meanwhile back at the Abbey, with Thomas not yet back among the living, it's Bates again who takes Poirot his luncheon on a tray. He helps Poirot to sit up in bed and places the tray across his lap._

POIROT: Ah, thank you so much.

BATES: Anything else you need, sir?

POIROT: Yes, I was wondering… What newspapers are taken in this house?

BATES: Would you like me to fetch you any? I could read to you while you eat, if you like.

POIROT: That's very kind, but thank you. I really was just wondering.

BATES: Well, His Lordship gets The Times, of course, and the local papers – Yorkshire Post, Yorkshire Gazette and so on. Then there's The Sketch for the ladies, and Lady Edith's monthly.

POIROT: And in the servants' hall?

BATES: We get the locals, too. Though most of the rest ends up with us sooner or later as well, once the family are finished with them.

POIROT: So the papers circulate quite freely within the house?

_Bates smiles a little ruefully._

BATES: Oh yes. It would be very easy for the children to get their hands on them to fool around with, if that's what you had in mind.

POIROT: And would they fool around with them even in Lord Grantham's own dressing room?

BATES: To my shame, yes, it seems so. They'll get clip around the ear if I ever catch them at it again.

_But his words are more serious than his tone suggests he is. He doesn't seem to have taken the matter of the stuffed shoes too much to heart, nor to have any qualms about talking to Poirot about it._

POIROT: Who else goes into that room, Mr Bates?

BATES: Of the servants, you mean? Just me. Well, the housemaids come in to hoover and dust, but they always tell me so we don't collide. And they'd never open the cupboards and drawers and touch His Lordship's things.

POIROT: And Mr Branson's valet?

BATES: Mr Branson has no valet, sir. He says he prefers to look after his few bits and pieces himself.

POIROT: I see. And do you remember, when you dressed Lord Grantham for dinner last night and he found the old newspaper in his shoes - did he express any curiosity about the paper itself? Did he unfold and look at any of it?

BATES: No. He just expressed irritation at his smarting toes, if that's how you want to put it. Then he told me to throw the stuff out, and I did.

POIROT: Very well. And finally, would you confide to me Lord Grantham's shoe size?

_It seems that no question of Poirot's is strange enough to rattle Bates._

BATES: Well, His Lordship's shoes are all bespoke, but I'd say he's at least a ten, maybe an eleven. He's a tall man.

POIROT: That he is, Mr Bates, without a doubt. Thank you. You've given me a lot to think about.

BATES _(nodding at the tray, with another smile):_ I've also given you a decent luncheon, I hope. Don't let me keep you, or it'll get cold.

_He picks up his walking stick and takes his leave._

**SCENE 74**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE PARK. AFTERNOON**

_The sun has come out. Thomas, back on duty, is taking Hercule Poirot, fully dressed again and in a warm coat, slowly and carefully across the lawn to the nearest bench overlooking the beautiful park. The detective leans heavily on Thomas' arm, still affecting bad lower back pain for the benefit of anyone who may be watching. He takes a deep breath of the clear air._

POIROT: Ah, this is a blessing. If I stay in bed much longer, I'll soon have real lumbago.

THOMAS: You've rather limited your range with that diagnosis.

POIROT: I know. That's why I have you.

 _He glances up at his assistant, his eyes sparkling with mischief. In spite of himself, Thomas smiles back._ _They cover the remaining distance to the bench, and Poirot lowers himself onto one end of it._

THOMAS: Shall I bring you a rug? It's still rather chilly.

POIROT: You may bring me anything, as long as it takes you ten or fifteen minutes.

THOMAS: I'll be sure to be slow. Well, good fishing.

_He turns to go just when the three Downton children appear on the scene with their nannies, approaching from the direction of the kitchen courtyard. The children run straight towards the two men by the bench, but it's not Poirot they're coming to see._

GEORGE _(calling from afar):_ Mr Barrow, Mr Barrow! We're going to feed the ducks! D'you want to come?

_They arrive, breathless and excited, George and Sybbie in front and little Marigold bringing up the rear, hampered by her shorter legs and the large basket she's jealously clinging to._

SYBBIE: Daisy gave us all the old bread.

_Marigold proudly holds out the basket for the two men's inspection._

GEORGE: Mrs Patmore says she wants 'em nice and plump for Uncle Tom's farewell feast!

_He mimes shooting and laughs._

SYBBIE _(digging George in the ribs):_ It's my farewell feast, too!

GEORGE _(to Thomas, clutching at the hem of his livery):_ Please say you'll come.

_Thomas gently removes George's hand._

THOMAS: I can't, I have to look after Mr Poirot here. He's not well, so mind you don't jostle him.

_For the first time, the children have any attention to spare for Poirot._

SYBBIE _(to Poirot, curiously):_ Are you very old? Because you walk like Granny Violet, and she's a hundred.

_George giggles._

THOMAS: Master George, has no one told you that it's rude to comment on a lady's age?

GEORGE _(in a defiant crow):_ Sybbie's four!

POIROT _(to Sybbie, playfully assuming an air of mystery):_ I am neither old nor young, little miss. I came into being the way I am now, and I will never change.

_Properly confused by this enigmatic utterance, the children let themselves be led away by the nannies. They're soon running and screeching again as they make their way down the hill towards the lake. Poirot and Thomas follow them with their eyes._

POIROT: They're very fond of you.

THOMAS: And I'm very fond of them. But we're told that caring for children is a female domain, aren't we.

POIROT _(amiably):_ Well, you're still a young man. I see no reason why you should not have children of your own, one day.

THOMAS: No, sir, I'm sure you don't.

_He has kept his face expertly blank, but all the same, when he turns to go back the house, Poirot smiles knowingly to himself._

**SCENE 75**

**EXT. THIRSK. OUTSIDE THE GOLDEN FLEECE HOTEL. AFTERNOON**

_Tom Branson and Hastings stand facing the large three-storey Golden Fleece Hotel that dominates the town's broad market street. It is easily the grandest building far and wide._

HASTINGS: Well, this is the last one on the list. Let's get it done, it's late enough as it is.

TOM: You're right, we should be getting back. Can't we just skip this one? I mean, don't you think it looks rather too grand for a manservant?  
HASTINGS: Not for a manservant who was planning to strike it rich, I should say. And besides, Poirot will have our hides if we're not as thorough as he would be.

_He starts crossing the street towards the hotel. Tom has no choice but to follow._

**SCENE 76**

**INT. THIRSK. THE GOLDEN FLEECE HOTEL. THE HALL. AFTERNOON**

_The hall of the hotel is deserted except for the place's manager, who is busy sorting invoices and other papers behind the reception desk. He looks up when Hastings and Tom enter._

HOTEL MANAGER: What can I do for you, gentlemen?

HASTINGS: We're looking for a man from London who may have stayed here on or just before January 6th.

TOM: It's a family matter. He's in for an inheritance.

_This introduction may be routine by now for the two investigators, but the manager's reaction certainly isn't. The man's expression changes instantly, from distantly polite to passionately angry._

MANAGER: Aha! Then I very much hope you're here to settle that scoundrel's bill! Five nights' full board and lodging, if you please, and not so much as tuppence for the page boy to show for it!

_Tom and Hastings exchange a startled look._

HASTINGS: He left without paying his bill?

MANAGER _(still in the same exasperated tone):_ Oh, I dare say. Hung around here for days, then got some sort of message one night, went out and never came back. Measly luggage he left behind didn't pay for more than a fraction of the cost.

HASTINGS _(with mounting excitement):_ And this was when, exactly?

MANAGER: Arrived on the 2nd, disappeared on the 6th.

HASTINGS: But if he left all his things behind, didn't you worry that something bad had happened to him?

MANAGER _(with a cynical laugh):_ Oh, that one could look after himself, I've no doubt. We should have smelled a rat right away. Had a face like a rat, too.

HASTINGS: Didn't he give a home address?

MANAGER: Sure he did, but strike me blind if it was the true one. We sent an invoice, of course, but it came right back, 'addressee deceased', of all things.

HASTINGS: Didn't _that_ have you worried?

MANAGER: Not really, if it was all bogus anyway. _(He rummages through his papers.)_ We've kept a copy. I hope that inheritance will cover it. Here it is. _(He holds a sheet of typewritten paper at arm's length and reads out the address on the invoice with a long-sighted frown.)_ Flat 36, The Albany, Mayfair, London.

_He hands it over the counter. Tom takes it. Hastings looks over his shoulder._

HASTINGS: Well, blimey. Look at the name. _(He points, honestly bewildered_.) 'Alex Green'?


	7. Monday, January 20th 1925 / Afternoon to Night

**SCENE 78**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE PARK. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot is still sitting on his bench, his legs now covered with a woollen rug, when Edith walks into view. She seems to be heading for Poirot, but just then the children and their nannies return from their excursion to the lake. They spot Edith, and Marigold runs towards her as fast as her little legs will go. Edith catches her, lifts her up with a laugh and plants a loving kiss on her forehead. When the others reach them, Edith listens patiently to the excited account of their adventures. But when they move on back towards the house, Edith leaves the group and approaches Poirot instead. He has been watching all this time, and now smiles in welcome._

POIROT: Lady Edith.

EDITH: Hello, Mr Poirot. Are you feeling better? It's good to see you up and about. _(She seems determined to be friendly this time.)_ I hope the children haven't bothered you? They can be quite a handful.

POIROT: A very lively lot, indeed. Mr Barrow introduced me to them.

EDITH: He should get extra pay for being our third nanny, really. _(A pause. Edith links her gloved hands in front of her, bracing herself for what she's going to say next.)_ Mr Poirot, I came to apologise. For my unkindness to you at dinner last night.

POIROT _(instantly):_ Oh, no. No, please, Lady Edith. Do not apologise. Grief makes us say and do the strangest things. It is in the human nature. And you must feel your grief even more sharply, since it was delayed so long by such treacherous false hope.

_Edith is in danger of tearing up. Poirot, seeing it, gestures at the empty seat next to him._

POIROT: Please to sit down, my lady. Sit and collect yourself.

_She sits fingering the edge of her fine woollen scarf, but she doesn't seem to trust herself to speak._

POIROT _(in a gentle voice):_ I know that you have carried a great burden, Lady Edith, and I wish I could have lightened it for you. But I was singularly unsuited to take a case that depended entirely on mutual trust and cooperation with German authorities.

EDITH: I understand that now. I had no right to tear into you like that, last night.

POIROT: Sometimes it is good to let one's anger out.

EDITH: I keep thinking that, but nobody else ever seems to agree.

_They exchange a fleeting smile. There is another pause. Poirot waits patiently._

EDITH: I also keep thinking about something else you said last night. That every house and every family has its secrets.

POIROT: Ah. Do you wish to confide something to me, my lady?

EDITH: Well – as a matter of fact, there is something that I very much do _not_ wish to tell you. But in case you should find out by accident, I want you to know that it has absolutely nothing to do with your search for that missing man. Nothing whatsoever.

_More silence. Finally, Poirot speaks._

POIROT: I think I understand you, Lady Edith. I have the greatest sympathy for your predicament, and the utmost respect for the enormous sacrifice that you're making in order to contain it. 

_Edith seems to find this reaction frustrating rather than helpful._

EDITH: But you think what I'm doing is wrong?

POIROT: No. I would not judge. But if I may offer you my advice, I would suggest that you take comfort from the holy scriptures.

_Edith laughs incredulously._

EDITH: There's not much comfort in the Bible for a woman like me.

POIROT: Then you have not looked closely enough. For is it not written in the Gospel of John, in the 32nd verse of the 8th chapter: "The truth will set you free"?

**SCENE 79**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. AFTERNOON**

_The three Downton children have been put to sit side by side on the carved wooden bench at the bottom of the great staircase, cheeks pink from the cold, short legs dangling like so many pendulums. Thomas, squatting on the floor in front of them, is helping to unlace their winter boots. In the background, the nannies carry off a mountain of little coats, scarves, mittens and woollen bobble hats. While he works away, Thomas is talking to the children in a low, urgent voice. They listen earnestly._

THOMAS: Look, I'm not scolding you, nobody is. But this is important. You have to tell me the truth.

GEORGE _(shaking his head vigorously):_ We didn't do it, Mr Barrow.

THOMAS: Cross your heart?

GEORGE: Cross my heart.

_He does._

SYBBIE: We don't go in there. Mr Bates would get scary.

THOMAS: All right. Then let's forget all about that now. _(The last boot comes off, and he straightens up.)_ And now I must go and fetch Mr Poirot in, or he'll have icicles hanging off his nose _. (The three children dissolve into giggles. Thomas lifts them down from the bench one by one.)_ Off you go.

**SCENE 80**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_Molesley comes down the stairs and looks into the kitchen, where for once, things are quiet. Mrs Patmore is at her little desk, going over the menus for the next days, while Daisy sits at the end of the central table, reading a book._

MOLESLEY: Tea for Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings in the Blue Room, please.

MRS PATMORE _(looking up):_ Oh, is the Captain back at last? There must have been quite a queue at the chemist's.

_Daisy gets up to fill the kettle._

DAISY _(to Mrs Patmore):_ Don't be silly, they've been investigating! I wish I could have been a fly on the wall!

MRS PATMORE _(grumpily):_ Flies on the wall get a swat if they don't watch out.

DAISY _(miffed):_ Don't you want him to solve the case?

MRS PATMORE: I want you to keep your nose out of other people's business, that's all.

_Daisy looks across at Molesley for support, but there's none to be had there._

MOLESLEY _(gravely):_ She's right, you know.

**SCENE 81**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot is back in his bed, listening with a face like a thundercloud as Hastings concludes his report of his enquiries in Thirsk. A tea tray is on the sideboard. Hastings, in the chair by the bedside, is balancing a cup in his hand. Poirot is not._

HASTINGS: So I'd have said that it all fits perfectly, but it's the wrong name. I'm afraid we've drawn another blank.

POIROT: Hastings, sometimes you are remarkably slow. What's in a name?

HASTINGS: You mean this _is_ Coyle, but he gave a false name because he was planning to leave without settling his bill?

POIROT: Ah, but was he planning it, or was he prevented from returning? And if the latter, by whom, and why?

HASTINGS: We don't know that.

POIROT _(highly irritated):_ We don't know because you and Mr Branson have managed to ask all the wrong questions, and omitted to ask all the ones that really matter!

HASTING _(deeply hurt):_ Give us break, Poirot. We were in a hurry. It was getting late. Mr Branson wanted to skip the place altogether, we were lucky I insisted on checking it at all. You can give me a list next time.

POIROT: Yes, I will do that. And I will do it now, because tomorrow, you must go back and do better. Have we an accurate description of this Mr Alex Green? Does it fit the one we have of Philip Coyle, or does it differ? The manager says they sold his belongings to cover a part of the bill – what belongings were there? What happened to those that could not be sold? And the message that Mr Green received on the 6th that made him leave and never return – is there a way to tell what it contained? When did it come, and when did he leave that night? Is there any indication where he went? Did he ask the way to somewhere? When was he first missed? Why are you not taking notes?

_Hastings scrambles to put down his tea cup and get a notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. Poirot makes a noise that is half sigh, half growl._

POIROT: No, there is no point. I will go myself, tomorrow, and give you a demonstration how this work is done properly.

HASTINGS: How are you going to explain that you're up and about again?

POIROT: I will not. It will be a very unreasonable thing to do, and my poor back will need twice the time afterwards to recover from such folly.

_He reaches over to ring the bell, then lies back and pulls the bed covers up to his chin. With a sigh, Hastings accepts his dismissal and gets up from his chair._

HASTINGS: Well, if there's nothing useful I can do, shall I leave you alone until you've regained your native amiability?

_Poirot only gives his friend a dark look. The door opens, and Molesley appears._

MOLESLEY: You rang, sir? Shall I take the tea away?

POIROT: Yes, please.

_Molesley picks up Hastings' empty cup and then walks over to the sideboard to retrieve the tray._

POIROT _(to Hastings, in a slightly kinder tone than before):_ There is something you can do, Hastings. Make a phone call to London for me and find out who is, or was, the occupant of Flat 36 at The Albany. _(Hastings nods.)_ Oh, and Mr Molesley, I have two more requests, if I may.

MOLESLEY: Of course, sir.

_He needs to clear his throat and say it again to make his voice heard._

POIROT: Would you furnish me with some writing paper? And would you please ask Lady Edith if she could find me the book we were talking about this afternoon?

MOLESLEY _(hesitantly):_ Lady Edith?

POIROT: Yes, she recommended a particular book from the library here, to while away the time.

MOLESLEY: Can't I get it for you, sir?

POIROT _(with an apologetic smile_ ): That is a kind offer, Mr Molesley, but I'm afraid I don't remember the title.

**SCENE 82**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. AFTERNOON**

_Much like Mrs Patmore and Daisy in the kitchen, Anna and Baxter are enjoying a moment of quiet in the servants' hall, too. Baxter is cleaning jewellery while Anna looks through a fashion magazine._

ANNA _(showing Baxter a photo):_ Look at that hairstyle. It would look great on Her Ladyship.

BAXTER: Mmh. Nice.

_Bates appears in the doorway, looking rather put out. Anna turns to look at him._

ANNA: Oh, what's got you in a grump? 

BATES: Mr Barrow, who else. _(He sits down at his wife's side.)_ He's just told me that it wasn't the children who put the paper in His Lordship's shoes.

BAXTER: How can he be sure of that?

BATES: Well, in his words, 'I know them, and I know when they're telling the truth.'

ANNA: He's probably right there, actually.

BATES: But then who did it?

BAXTER: Why does it even matter?

BATES: Because I thought it was all in Mr Poirot's head, but now I'm starting to think that he may have a point.

ANNA: What point, exactly?

BATES: Mr Poirot thought there might have been a secret message in the paper. But His Lordship had me throw it out without even looking at it.

ANNA: So there was no message. 

BAXTER _(thoughtfully):_ Or there was, but he missed it?

BATES _(to Baxter):_ Exactly. So laugh at me if you will, but I just went back to the wood shed and looked for the stuff. It was gone.

BAXTER: That could have just been the hall boys doing the fires, though.

ANNA _(to Bates, shifting uncomfortably in her chair):_ Are you saying that Mr Poirot is using Mr Barrow to spy on us?

BATES: Either that, or he's freelancing. Knowing Thomas Barrow, it's probably both at the same time. _(He gets back to his feet.)_ At any rate, now you're warned. _(To Baxter)_ I assume that Thomas won't dare pester Mr Carson about his lost hat, but he's probably going to pester you about Her Ladyship's lost gloves next.

BAXTER _(with a smile):_ Thank you. If he does, I'll pester back. 

**SCENE 83**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. EVENING**

_With dinner approaching fast, the place has come back to life. Molesley and Andy have just brought down the various tea trays from the library, the sick room and the nursery. Daisy takes the silver tea pots to the sink to rinse them out. One of the them is still surprisingly full._

DAISY _(peering inside):_ Oh! Doesn't Mr Poirot like our tea?  
_But nobody pays her any attention. Molesley, Andy and Mrs Patmore stand in a tight group on the other side of the table, conversing in an urgent, low tone._

MOLESLEY _(to the other two):_ … and then he asked to see Lady Edith. I've warned her, of course, but if he's got this far, all it takes is one call to The Albany and -

DAISY _(calling across from the sink in a loud, annoyed voice):_ Don't mind me!

_The group breaks up, looking guilty._

**SCENE 84**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_A knock on the door announces the arrival of Edith. She comes in hesitantly, carrying a leather-bound folder._

POIROT: Ah, Lady Edith. Thank you for coming to see me.

_Edith hands the folder to Poirot._

EDITH: Here is your writing paper, Mr Poirot. But Molesley rather confused me just now about that book you wanted. I don't recall that we talked about any book this afternoon. Other than the Bible, but there's one in your bedside drawer, of course.

POIROT: No, indeed. I must ask your forgiveness for this little ruse. But I hope you will agree with me that my true request is not a matter for the ears of the servants.

EDITH _(attempting a light tone):_ That sounds rather mysterious.

POIROT _(gravely):_ Please, my Lady, do not be offended. But would your confidence in me extend so far as to let me see the birth certificate of your daughter?

_Edith takes a deep breath, then releases it again._

EDITH: You want to see the name of her father, don't you? Well, can't you guess?

POIROT: I'm very nearly sure, my Lady, but I should like to see it with my own eyes.

EDITH: It's not Philip Coyle, if that's what you're thinking.

POIROT: Nor Alex Green?

EDITH: Who is Alex Green?

_This is deadlock, and Poirot knows he needs a new approach. He adopts a fatherly but sensible tone._

POIROT: Lady Edith, you must be aware that your situation makes you vulnerable to attack, both from the malicious and the righteous. Various people could derive various kinds of benefits either from revealing your secret, or from threatening to do so. There must be others who know the truth about the child. Can you be sure that none of them wish you ill? And that they would all be safe from temptation if they realised that their knowledge could be turned to profit? Is it not possible –

EDITH _(firmly):_ Possible, maybe, but not in this case. I give you my word. There is no connection.

_There is another pause, then Poirot puts his smile back in place._

POIROT: Well, it was just a thought that I had. I'm sure I'm wrong.

_Edith nods stiffly and heads for the door._

**SCENE 85**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. MARY'S BEDROOM. EVENING**

_Mary sits in front of the mirror at the dressing table while Anna brushes her hair ahead of dinner. Mary looks rather irritated._

MARY: Why should Baxter worry about it? It was I who took Mama's gloves, I told them so. Case closed.

ANNA _(awkwardly):_ Well, you know how it makes a servant look when something of value goes missing. I don't mean to be pushy, but… could you maybe still give them back? Even if they're torn? Just to make sure there's no –

MARY: I threw them away, Anna, I can't give them back. _(She rises impatiently from her seat.)_ I just wish we could be rid of Mr Poirot. He's got all of us on edge for no reason.

ANNA: I know, I'm sorry. He seems very inquisitive. Mr Bates told me he's been asking all kinds of questions about His Lordship's shoes, too, and about the guns.

MARY: Oh, has he? Well – _(Her expression softens.)_ If it means so much to Baxter, I will ask Mama to reassure her. I'm sure she's got nothing to fear.

ANNA _(sincerely):_ Thank you, my lady.

MARY: And now let's hear no more of Mr Poirot and his crazy case.

_There is a knock on the door, and Tom Branson looks in._

MARY: Tom! There you are. You took your time.

TOM _(dead serious):_ I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you right now.

_He glances across at Anna, who takes her cue and leaves, taking Mary's discarded day clothes with her._

**SCENE 86**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. EVENING**

_Hastings enters, barely taking the time to knock. He's out of breath, as if he's just run up the stairs. Poirot, who sits in bed writing with his pince nez on his nose, looks up in surprise._

HASTINGS: Quick warning. Dr Clarkson's here, he'll look in in a moment, but we've also brought Mrs Crawley. She insisted, I'm afraid. So you may want to make it look real.

POIROT: Thank you, mon ami _. (He closes his fountain pen, removes his pince nez and picks up a letter from his bedside table, where it was propped against a large white porcelain pot with a chemist's label.)_ Please put this in the postbox in the village for me when you get back there.

_Hastings reads the address on the envelope and raises his eyebrows._

HASTINGS: Inspector Japp? _(He pockets the letter.)_ I'm sorry, I just feel bad going behind everyone's backs. They're all so friendly and helpful… I really can't bring myself to think ill of any of them.

POIROT: Well, that is the problem, isn't it? Neither can I. And yet…

HASTINGS: I'll tell you what. I'm not very fond of this Mr Barrow. He seems like a sly fellow to me. I don't trust him, to be honest, and I am wondering whether you should.

POIROT: I appreciate your concern for me, Hastings, but I do not feel any less safe in the same room with Mr Barrow than you should feel in the same car with Mr Branson.

_Hastings frowns at this cryptic statement, but they're interrupted at that moment by another knock at the door. It opens to admit Isobel Crawley and Dr Clarkson. The Doctor hangs back while Isobel takes Poirot's hand to express her concern and her good wishes._

ISOBEL: I'm so sorry this had to happen, Mr Poirot. I hope you're feeling better now. Captain Hastings told me you were up and about already this afternoon. _(To Dr Clarkson)_ I hope this was wise?

DR CLARKSON: Well, moderate exercise…

POIROT: I am so well again, Madame, that I'm planning to go in to Thirsk tomorrow. Captain Hastings and Mr Branson have made a valuable discovery there today that I should wish to see confirmed in person.

ISOBEL _(with a smile):_ What, at the chemist's? May I? _(She picks up the salve pot from the bedside table, opens the lid and sniffs it gently.)_ Ah, comfrey and arnica?

_She smiles at Dr Clarkson, who nods._

POIROT: Yes, it is wonderfully warming.

_Isobel puts the pot down again and steps aside to make room for the Doctor. Hastings fetches a chair for her._

DR CLARKSON: Ah, Captain Hastings, before I forget – Patrick sends his regards.

HASTINGS ( _guiltily):_ Oh. Well, I – I've rather neglected him, I'm afraid.

DR CLARKSON: No, he's not cross, he understands that your work comes first. But he's thinking of going a bit further north, to the Tees Valley, for the next couple of days. His wife's cousin has a farm there. He asks if you'd mind.

HASTINGS _(relieved):_ Not at all. Please tell him to go, by all means.

_Dr Clarkson nods, then sits down by Poirot's bed._

POIROT _(to Dr Clarkson):_ You don't think it's outside the realm of the possible for me to go on this little trip tomorrow, do you, Doctor? Hastings here has struck up quite a friendship with Mr Branson, I'm sure he'll let us borrow the most well-sprung of the cars.

DR CLARKSON: Well, at this stage, you yourself are the best judge of what feels right and what's too much. If you promise me to rest again afterwards…

POIROT _(sincerely):_ Thank you, Doctor.

DR CLARKSON: So if that's all I can do -

POIROT: As a matter of fact, there is something else. When I first arrived here, you spoke of the local school's headmaster as being an expert on the weather, did you not? Would you be so kind as to take him this note?

_He picks up the note he's been writing and hands it to Dr Clarkson, who folds it up without looking at it._

DR CLARKSON: Yes, of course.

_Isobel looks intrigued, but Poirot does not elaborate._

POIROT: And I have some more questions for you, too, Doctor, also concerning the disappearance of Philip Coyle. But it is a matter of which I hesitate to speak in the presence of a lady.

ISOBEL: Is it a medical matter?

POIROT: Yes, it is.

ISOBEL: Then please go right ahead, Mr Poirot. I was a nurse in the South African war when my husband was there with the Medical Corps. Nothing concerning the functions or malfunctions of the human body can shock me any more.

_Poirot inclines his head to her, then addresses Dr Clarkson again._

POIROT: When you viewed the body of the unfortunate Edward Wilkinson, Doctor – did you notice a gunshot wound anywhere on it? Specifically, from a shotgun?

DR CLARKSON: Well… I couldn't be completely sure about the face and the frontal neurocranium, as they were pretty much destroyed by the impact. But no, not that I could see. I'd say all of his injuries were directly attributable to the collision with the train.

_He glances at Isobel, but she is bearing up bravely._

POIROT: There wasn't a formal inquest held, was there?

DR CLARKSON: No. Nobody requested one. Dr Latimer knew what had happened, of course, and he explained it to the police, so they had no questions either.

POIROT: But your verdict was that of accidental death?

DR CLARKSON: For the sake of the vicar's conscience, yes.

POIROT: Thank you. And how would you describe the state of Mr Wilkinson's clothes?

DR CLARKSON: Bloody. _(Hastings pulls a face.)_ Well – what can I say? None of them could be salvaged, not even the shoes.

POIROT: But would you say they were the clothes of a man who had been out in the woods and sleeping rough for several days before this tragic incident occurred? 

DR CLARKSON _(thoughtfully):_ I… no, I couldn't tell you that. I didn't look for that sort of thing at the time, I'm afraid.

POIROT: Well, thank you, Doctor. This is all most helpful.

_But in truth, Poirot seems somewhat disappointed._

**SCENE 87**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Mary and Edith, both in evening dress, emerge from their rooms at the same time and meet in the corridor ahead of the family's dinner. Both of them look preoccupied, Mary possibly even more so than Edith._

MARY: Oh, there you are. I was looking for you earlier.

EDITH: Mr Poirot asked me to come and talk to him.

MARY _(alarmed):_ What? Don't tell me you did!

EDITH: Don't worry. You needn't think that just because you're a good liar, nobody else is.

MARY: What did he want?

EDITH: He thinks I'm being blackmailed.

MARY _(with a dismissive laugh):_ Oh, good. Who would blackmail _you?_ Keep him thinking that, and we'll be fine.

_Edith looks very injured, but Mary just brushes past her and leads the way downstairs._

**SCENE 88**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. NIGHT**

_With both the family's and the servants' dinners over, the light is low and the place is winding down for the night. Molesley and Baxter, who were sitting by the fireplace, pack up their newspaper and embroidery, respectively. On the other side of the room, Thomas stubs out his cigarette and closes his book._

MOLESLEY _(with a glance at the clock, to Baxter):_ Well, it's time. Good night, then.

BAXTER: Good night.

_Molesley leaves. Baxter means to follow, but Thomas calls her back._

THOMAS: Do you have a moment?

BAXTER: What is it?  
_Thomas leans over to check that Molesley really is gone. He is._

THOMAS: Do you remember what you did on January 6th?

BAXTER: Of course not. Why would I?

THOMAS: Wasn't that the day you lost Her Ladyship's gloves?

_Baxter takes a deep breath._

BAXTER: Mr Barrow, firstly, I did not lose them. Lady Mary borrowed them. Secondly, I have no idea when they were last there, except that they were gone last Sunday, when Her Ladyship wanted to wear them to church. And thirdly, you can tell Mr Poirot to ask me himself, next time.

_She turns and marches out of the servants' hall without another word. Thomas purses his lips, then gets up and leaves, too._

**SCENE 89**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. DOWNSTAIRS CORRIDOR. NIGHT**

_Daisy walks past the far end of the passage, taking covered bowls with leftovers from the kitchen to the larder. Thomas exits the servants' hall, switching off the lights, and walks off in the direction of the staircase. Outside the door of Mrs Hughes' sitting room, he pauses and frowns. There are voices talking inside, but it's impossible to make out the actual words. Thomas glances over his shoulder, then moves closer to the door when -_

DAISY: Are you looking for Mrs Hughes?

_Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin. Daisy is standing at the end of the passage, arms crossed._

THOMAS: Don't sneak up on me like that!

DAISY _(tartly):_ Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black?

THOMAS: I was going to knock, but I hear she's got company.

_It's supposed to be a question, but Daisy shows no intention of answering it. There's a silence._

THOMAS: Don't you hate it when they treat you like a child?

 _He's close enough to the mark, but she won_ _'t be moved._ _She merely stares him out of sight, and it's only when he's gone that she wipes away an angry tear._


	8. Tuesday, January 21st 1925 / Morning

**SCENE 90**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE STABLE YARD. MORNING**

_The next morning, Mary and Tom, both dressed for work, come walking into the yard together. They halt outside the agent's office._

MARY: He's going into Thirsk? In his state?

TOM: Hastings says they have the Doctor's blessing. And it's only for a few questions.

MARY: Yes, and I can imagine what those questions will be.

TOM: I know. I'm sorry I couldn't stop him yesterday. I did my best.

MARY: I know that. Well, this is what we went to all the trouble for, isn't it? We're about to find out how good our defences really are.

TOM: You see it all as a game, don't you?

MARY: No. But it's easier to think about it this way. Well, just let me know what they've found out this time, as soon as you're back.

TOM: I can't. I'm not invited. They're just borrowing a car.

_Mary's eyes widen in alarm._

MARY: But we can't let them go alone! If they -

TOM _(impatiently):_ Well, what do you want me to do, tamper with the brakes?

_His voice has risen in anger, and they both realise a little too late that they're not alone. Thomas is approaching from the direction of the house. As Tom has his back to him, Mary sees him first. She raises her eyebrows in warning._

MARY: Tom, no more of that, please. _(She deliberately wipes her face blank, then turns to Thomas.)_ What is it, Barrow?

THOMAS: His Lordship asks Mr Branson whether ten o'clock would suit.

MARY: I'll leave you to it.

_She nods to Tom, then enters the agent's office, closing the door behind her._

TOM _(to Thomas):_ Ten is fine. _(He frowns.)_ We'd already settled that at breakfast.

THOMAS: Yes, I know.

_They stand staring at each other for a moment. Tom's eyes narrow._

TOM: What do you want?

THOMAS: I wanted to let you know that I haven't told Mr Poirot about the gun. Not yet.

_If this was supposed to unsettle Tom, it isn't working._

TOM: So?

THOMAS: I thought I'd give you the chance to tell him yourself. In case there's some innocent explanation that I'm not aware of.

TOM _(coldly):_ How thoughtful. Then let me give you a chance, too. The chance to back off before you burn your fingers. Because if I were you, Mr Barrow, I'd tread very carefully right now. Very, _very_ carefully indeed.

_In the background, waving cheerily, Captain Hastings appears to fetch the promised car. Tom goes to meet him. Thomas follows him with his eyes, his brows drawn together, looking intrigued rather than discouraged._

**SCENE 91**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE LIBRARY. MORNING**

_Cora is at the writing desk when Edith enters, looking rather downcast. She sits down in an armchair close to the desk, but says nothing. Cora finishes her sentence, then closes her fountain pen and turns to face her daughter._

CORA _(with a frown):_ You don't look well at all.

EDITH: I didn't sleep very well, I'm afraid.

CORA: Is anything the matter?

EDITH: No… I just wish we would see the back of Hercule Poirot.

CORA: What's he done now? I thought you'd gone and made your peace with him.

EDITH: I did, yes. And he was really quite nice to talk to. But I'm afraid I've given him some very strange ideas.

CORA: What do you mean?

EDITH: He thinks I'm being blackmailed. Over Marigold. He thinks that's what Philip Coyle was here for.

_Cora sits up in alarm._

CORA: Edith – did you tell him about Marigold?

EDITH: No. But he knew, somehow. _(With a rueful smile)_ I can tell now why he's a famous detective.

CORA: Well, is any of it true? The blackmail thing? _(She takes her daughter's hand.)_ You would tell me, wouldn't you?

EDITH _(shaking her head):_ No, it's not true. That's what's so strange. I'd never heard the name Philip Coyle in my life until Mr Poirot came here. And no one's blackmailing me, nor has ever tried to. _(Cora heaves a sigh of relief.)_ It's just – _(Her eyes fill with tears.)_ Can I just sit here and cry for a bit and not answer any more questions?

CORA: Oh, my darling.

_Cora takes her daughter into her arms and holds her, gently stroking her back, while Edith weeps silently on her shoulder._

**SCENE 92**

**EXT. COUNTRY ROAD. MORNING**

_Hastings is driving himself and Hercule Poirot to Thirsk. They sit side by side in one of the larger and more comfortable Downton cars. Poirot_ _'s mood doesn't seem to have improved much since the night before._

HASTINGS: I've finally got hold of the office at The Albany in London. The current occupant of Flat 36 is a Mr Ahmad Ben Youssef Al-Alaoui, a younger son of the Sultan of Morocco. The former occupant, until his marriage last December, was Lord Viscount Gillingham. He was there for years.

POIROT: Are you telling me that we've drawn yet another blank?

HASTING _(in a slightly injured tone):_ You should know me better than that, Poirot. Of course I asked about the tenants' servants as well. The Arab gentleman has two native men from his own country with him, but Lord Gillingham used to have a valet called Alex Green. He died in a road accident, back in 1922. That settles it, doesn't it? Philip Coyle did check into the Golden Fleece Hotel under a false name. He must have known Green. Maybe they'd been friends, or colleagues. So he took the dead man's name when he needed an alias.

POIROT: That's a possibility, yes.

_Hastings glances at his friend, a little disappointed that Poirot doesn't share his conviction._

HASTINGS: We started out looking for one missing man, Philip Coyle. Then we stumbled across another, Dr Clarkson's mad vicar. And now we've found a third, Alex Green. Doesn't this make your head spin? I at least find it a relief to think that number one and number three are the same.

POIROT _(pedantically):_ Went by the same name, you mean. Well, Hastings, I prefer to postpone my conclusions until I am in possession of all the facts. But you are very much mistaken in one thing. I am Hercule Poirot, and Hercule Poirot's head does not 'spin'.

_He sinks down a little deeper into his scarf and overcoat, looking ahead at the road with an ill-humoured expression on his face. Hastings sighs._

**SCENE 93**

**EXT. DOWNTON ESTATE. MORNING**

_On the brow of a hill, Robert and Tom stand looking down at a small patch of woodland, Tom holding a map, Robert holding a pair of binoculars. Their car is parked nearby._

ROBERT _(looking through the binoculars):_ And we want to take the plantation right down to the creek? _(When his son-in-law doesn't answer, he takes the binoculars down and glances at him with a frown.)_ Your mind's half-way across the Atlantic already, isn't it?  
_Tom, who has been gazing into the middle distance, shakes off his preoccupation._

TOM: Sorry. I'm a bit – I don't know. I was miles away, for sure. Down to the creek, yes. It makes sense as a natural border.

_Robert nods, then turns and trains his binoculars onto the road._

ROBERT: I'd say we're good for another turn. There's nobody in sight.

TOM: If you want.

ROBERT: You're not impressed with me, are you.

TOM _(with a small smile):_ You may impress me yet. We've still got a week to go.  
  


**SCENE 94**

**INT. CAR. MORNING**

_Poirot and Hastings continue their journey to Thirsk, and their discussion._

HASTINGS: By the way, I saw Branson and your Mr Barrow talking together in the stable yard just before we left. It didn't look friendly at all.

POIROT: Was he threatening him?

HASTINGS: Maybe he tried, but Branson didn't look daunted or intimidated to me.

POIROT: That's not what I was asking.

HASTINGS _(with an irritated glance at his friend):_ Why have you got it in for Tom Branson? He's been nothing but helpful, and I think he's a fine chap and excellent company. Not to mention that he's brilliant with cars.

POIROT: The latter being an infallible testament to any man's moral character, of course.

HASTINGS: Come off it, Poirot. What's he done to make you so suspicious?

POIROT _(in a mock-apologetic tone):_ Why, mon ami, you are right, of course. Apart from his unrestricted access to the house's guns, his urgent need to go to confession ahead of his precipitous flight to America, and his very transparent attempt to stop you finding out about Alex Green at the Golden Fleece Hotel yesterday, I'd say there was no reason to be suspicious of him at all. _(In a sudden sharp exclamation)_ Mind that cart, Hastings!

_A horse-drawn cart has moved out of a farmyard into the road ahead of them. Hastings, distracted – and indeed deeply shocked - by Poirot_ _'s words, slams on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision. Poirot braces himself against the dashboard with a grimace. The car comes to an instant, screeching halt. The horse and cart trot off. Hastings takes a deep breath, collecting himself._

HASTINGS: I thought you suspected the servants.

POIROT: I never said that I suspected them, mon ami. I merely said that I wanted to talk to them. No, at the moment, I am far more interested in the family than in the staff. They strike me as quite unusual people. Very independent, very self-sufficient, very confident. Or have you ever seen an estate of this size that is managed by a daughter of the house?

HASTINGS: Oh, Lady Mary, yes. She strikes _me_ as a bit frosty, if I'm honest. I find Lady Edith much more engaging, now that she's come round to your point of view regarding that damned ugly business with her fiancé. _(_ _He restarts the car, and they continue their journey.)_ Branson tells me she has quite an active life of her own, did you know? She owns a publishing company and runs up to London every so often to keep an eye on it. That's not what Earl's daughters usually do, either.

POIROT _(drily):_ Take care, Hastings. You have a history of letting a beautiful lady's smile make you blind to the imperatives of our work.

HASTINGS _(with a laugh):_ Surely not in this case. What could Lady Edith have to do with anything?

POIROT: I hope you are aware, mon ami, that of all the people who live and work at Downton Abbey, Lady Edith is the one person who knows exactly where both Philip Coyle and Alex Green went on the night of January 6th, and why neither of them ever came back?

_For the second time in the past few minutes, Hastings is in grave danger of crashing the car._

HASTINGS: The devil do I know that! How on earth do you make that out?

POIROT: Lady Edith has confided to me an aspect of her past that she prefers not to discuss publicly. She was worried that I might discover it, and that I might think it was linked to our search for Philip Coyle. But she is adamant that there is no connection whatsoever.

HASTINGS: And you think she's right? How do you know?

POIROT: No, no, Hastings. You are asking the wrong question again. The real question, of course, is: How does _she_ know?

**SCENE 95**

**EXT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. THE DOWER HOUSE. MORNING**

_Isobel and Violet take a walk in the wintery garden of the Dower House. Violet, in a fur coat, is leaning heavily on her stick as they pick their slow way across the sodden lawn. The scraggy rose bushes and bare, leafless trees give the scene a melancholy air._

ISOBEL: You were right about Hercule Poirot shamming his illness.

VIOLET: Of course I was. How did you find out? Did you challenge him?

ISOBEL: No. I employed a little sham of my own, I'm afraid. I feigned a professional interest in the salve Dr Clarkson had prescribed for him. He hadn't used any of it.

VIOLET: And Dr Clarkson is in on it?

ISOBEL: He must be.

VIOLET _(with a sigh):_ I'm not surprised. That man really has no sense of family loyalty.

ISOBEL: I refrain from pointing out that he isn't family.

_Violet dismisses this with a wave of her hand._

VIOLET: You know what I mean. What about Mr Poirot's devoted nurse, then?

ISOBEL: Barrow, you mean? He's a complication, that's true.

VIOLET: He'd be flattered to hear that, I'm sure. _(They exchange a wry smile.)_ Well, have you told Robert and Cora?

ISOBEL: No, not yet. I still need to think what to do with this knowledge, now that I have it.

VIOLET: Well, don't think too long, or I shall intervene.

ISOBEL _(slightly alarmed):_ Please don't. I'll sort it out.

VIOLET: Well, if you insist. But I will not stand by and watch my son and his household be taken for a fool forever.

**SCENE 96**

**INT. THIRSK. THE GOLDEN FLEECE HOTEL. MORNING**

_Poirot and Hastings stand at the reception desk of the Golden Fleece Hotel, much like Hastings and Tom Branson did on the day before. But the manager behind the desk has now been joined by a chambermaid, a very young woman in cap and apron with red hair and freckles. She_ _'s very nervous, kneading her hands as Poirot addresses her. Hastings has his notebook at the ready._

POIROT: Please, Mademoiselle, it is very important that you tell us what exactly the man whom you know as Mr Green looked like.

CHAMBERMAID _(with a shrug):_ Just – normal, like. On the shorter side. Brown hair. I can't tell you more than that. I just took him his meals and made the bed when he was out, and such things.

POIROT: Brown hair, eh? Do you remember the colour of his eyes?

CHAMBERMAID: No.

POIROT: Then please try and recall for us the morning when he was gone. Was it you who cleared out his room and put together his belongings for the auction?

CHAMBERMAID: Yes. Me and Mrs Barker, our housekeeper.

POIROT: What things did you find in his luggage?

CHAMBERMAID: Nothing special. Toiletries. Spare clothes, shirts and socks and the like.

_Hastings takes notes of all of this._

POIROT: Any books or papers?

CHAMBERMAID _(shaking her head):_ No. Just some magazines, but Mrs Barker burned those right away.

POIROT: No personal documents? Letters? Or an address book?

_The chambermaid shakes her head again._

MANAGER _(grumpily):_ He took good care that we wouldn't be able to trace him.

POIROT _(to the chambermaid):_ And on his last evening here, were you on duty then, too? _(The chambermaid nods.)_ Then please to tell us what happened then.

CHAMBERMAID: Well, that message came, and I took it to him, to his room. Then later, I took him his dinner. He ate in his room most of the time. I think he didn't like mixing with the other guests. Then I don't know what happened next, but - _(with a glance at the manager)_ – as Mr Barker's told you -

MANAGER: He went out around nine, and that was the last we ever saw of him.

POIROT: When was he first missed?

CHAMBERMAID: He'd ordered his breakfast for eight the next morning, but he didn't answer when I knocked. We tried again at half past, and at nine, and then Mrs Barker opened with the master key, and the room was empty.

POIROT: Was the bed slept in?

CHAMBERMAID: It was a bit rumpled maybe, sir. I didn't really look.

_She's still constantly lacing and unlacing her fingers._

POIROT: Hmm. _(A pause.)_ Well, tell me, Mademoiselle – the message that came for the supposed Mr Green, do you know when that was?

CHAMBERMAID: Oh, yes, I took it meself. _(With another glance at the manager)_ Mr Barker wasn't here for a moment, and the page boy was out in the yard, I think, so there was no one but me in the hall. It was late afternoon. After tea, but way before dinner. Maybe around six?

POIROT: And did it come by post, or by telephone?

CHAMBERMAID: Neither, sir. It was delivered by hand.

_Poirot and Hastings exchange a surprised look._

MANAGER: What? Why did you never say that, Lucy?

CHAMBERMAID _(blushing):_ I didn't know that it mattered, sir.

POIROT: It may matter a great deal, Mademoiselle. Can you tell us anything about the messenger? Was it anyone you knew, from the telegraph office, or…?

CHAMBERMAID: No, he was a stranger. He came by car, because I heard him drive away again when he left.

HASTINGS: Did he speak to you?

CHAMBERMAID: Yes, but he just said, 'This is for Mr Green. Please let him have it immediately' or something like that, and pushed the note across the counter.

POIROT: Did you see what the message was?

CHAMBERMAID: No, it was in a cover.

POIROT: Can you describe the man?

CHAMBERMAID: Well, I didn't see much of him, because he never took off his hat and had it pulled down over his face a bit. But he was young. Lightly built, but tall. Very dark hair, dark brown or even black. _(She bites her lip and frowns as she recalls the details.)_ Fine-boned face, delicate, like. Nicely dressed, too. He had a scarf on, against the cold, but underneath, a fine white shirt and tie. Like our waiters when we do big dinners.

HASTINGS _(to Poirot, alarmed):_ But -

_Poirot waves his friend into silence._

POIROT _(to the chambermaid):_ And is there anything else that you recall about him? Anything that stood out to you?

CHAMBERMAID: Well, yes, sir, there was. He wore a strange glove.

POIROT: Strange, in what way?

CHAMBERMAID: It caught me eye when he handed over the message. It only covered his palm. _(She holds out her hand and points to demonstrate.)_ The fingers were cut off, but irregular, like. Some half covered, some not at all. I don't know why. I've never seen anything like it.

_Hastings lets out a long breath._

HASTINGS: Well, I'll be damned.

_Poirot, however, doesn't look surprised in the least._


	9. Tuesday, January 21st 1925 / Morning to Afternoon

**SCENE 97**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. KITCHEN. MORNING**

_Mrs Patmore comes walking into the kitchen ahead of the family's luncheon and finds Daisy standing there, brooding over a platter of freshly caught fish._

MRS PATMORE _(impatiently):_ Are you waiting for those trouts to gut themselves?

DAISY _(sarcastically):_ No, I'm waiting for them to gut each other.

_Mrs Patmore halts and gives her assistant a searching look. Daisy toys with the knife on the wooden board in front of her._

MRS PATMORE: What's wrong with you?

DAISY: It's just something Mr Barrow said last night.

MRS PATMORE: You should know better by now than to pay attention to his chitchat.

DAISY: No, I reckon he had a point this time. _(She suddenly puts the knife down with an angry clang.)_ I just wish you'd tell me your secret. And don't say that there is no secret, because I'm not an idiot. Or don't you trust me?

MRS PATMORE _(innocently):_ Why wouldn't I trust you?

DAISY: Because even Andy is in on it, and he's only been here five minutes.

_Mrs Patmore sighs, then glances over her shoulder to check that they're alone. They are._

MRS PATMORE _(in a very different tone now, low but intent):_ Daisy, has it occurred to you that I haven't told you because I wanted to protect you?

DAISY _(with a frown):_ Protect me?

MRS PATMORE: Yes! You're young, Daisy, and you're clever, with your studies and all, you're going places, you've got your whole life ahead of you… So don't jump down my throat because I didn't want to ruin all that for you.

DAISY: Ruin it? _(She sounds deeply worried rather than angry now.)_ What's happened? Mrs Patmore! That sounds terrible!

_Mrs Patmore shakes her head. To Daisy_ _'s astonishment, her_ _eyes have filled with tears._

MRS PATMORE: Oh my girl, you have no idea.

**SCENE 98**

**EXT. THIRSK. THE GOLDEN FLEECE HOTEL. MORNING**

_Poirot and Hastings exit the hotel together and turn to walk down the broad market street to their car._

HASTINGS: So you think the girl's telling the truth?

POIROT: Why the sudden doubts, Hastings? Only an hour ago, you were quite ready to believe the worst of Mr Barrow. Don't you feel vindicated now?

HASTINGS: It's just… Do you think she's a good witness? I thought it was odd, you know. She took Green his meals and did his room for four whole days, and yet when we asked her for a description, she could only give us the barest essentials. While she saw Barrow only for a minute or two, but she still came up with this whole list of completely accurate details about him.

POIROT: Well observed, Hastings. And what do you conclude from that?

HASTINGS: I don't want to think badly of her, but could she be in cahoots with Green? You know, kept the description deliberately vague so he can't be traced?

POIROT: To what end?

HASTINGS: Maybe she liked Green? Wanted to do him a favour?

POIROT: While she couldn't care less whether Mr Barrow gets caught or not, you mean?

HASTINGS _(with a shrug):_ That's how I read it. _(They have arrived at their car.)_ Anyway, what now?

POIROT: Now we go back to Downton Abbey.

HASTINGS: To confront Barrow?

POIROT: No. To have a few words with the chauffeur.

HASTINGS: With the chauffeur? Why's that?

POIROT: Because I need to know who in the household is able to drive a car.

HASTINGS: He could have come in a taxi.

_Poirot gives Hastings a scathing look, then pulls open the passenger door and climbs in._

**SCENE 99**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. MORNING**

_Carson is on the phone, taking notes._

CARSON _(into the phone):_ Yes, yes. I have it. Not at all, sir… Yes, as soon as he's back… Goodbye.

_He hangs up the phone. Mrs Hughes walks past, carrying a laundry basket with fresh linen._

MRS HUGHES: Who was that?

CARSON: Mr Dawes, the headmaster of the school. Apparently Mr Poirot wanted to know about the recent local weather.

MRS HUGHES: What? How's that supposed to help?

CARSON _(reproachfully):_ Aren't we taught that curiosity is a sin, Mrs Hughes?

MRS HUGHES: Well, I don't see how the weather could be to blame.

CARSON: To blame for what, exactly?

MRS HUGHES _(with a wry chuckle):_ Mr Carson, you can forbid us to talk about it, but you can't keep us from wondering. Don't tell me that you aren't, too.

CARSON: I thought you were on my side in this!

MRS HUGHES: Well, I hope you're on mine.

_She continues past him towards the dining room. He shakes his head, then pockets the note and goes about his own duties._

**SCENE 100**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. STABLE YARD. MORNING**

_Hastings and Poirot arrive back at Downton Abbey. Hastings takes a neat turn through the gate into the stable yard and stops the car right in front of the coach house. Mr Stark, the Downton chauffeur, comes out, carrying an oil can. He quickly walks over and opens the door on the passenger side for Poirot. Hastings jumps out on the driver_ ' _s side and joins the other two._

STARK _(to Hastings):_ You needn't have taken the trouble, sir. Mr Molesley could have taken the car round from the front door in a jiffy. _(To Poirot)_ Save you the walk.

POIROT: Not at all, Mr Stark. I'm told moderate exercise is beneficial, lest I go rusty. _(He makes a move as if to climb out, but then abandons the attempt with a groan.)_ Ah, just a moment.

STARK: Very well, sir, take your time.

POIROT _(conversationally):_ You've intrigued me, Mr Stark. Do all the manservants know how to drive?

STARK: Oh, no. Only Mr Molesley. He helps me out sometimes when we have to take larger parties to the station and such.

POIROT: Not Mr Carson?

STARK: No, sir. Mr Carson won't like me saying it, but he belongs in a different century. Cars are a mystery to him.

POIROT: What about Mr Barrow?

STARK _(with a chuckle):_ Heavens, no. There's a story out there about how back in war, when Downton was a convalescent home, someone asked him to shift an ambulance in the drive to make room for the next one, and he nearly wrecked it.

POIROT: And the new young man from London?

STARK: Andy? He may know how to take the tube, but I doubt he's ever been behind a wheel.

HASTINGS: What about the family? Apart from Mr Branson, obviously, are there any motorists among them?

STARK: Well, not Lady Mary, obviously -

POIROT: No, quite understandable...

STARK: - but Lady Edith is a very competent driver.

HASTINGS _(surprised):_ Lady Edith?

STARK: Yes. Legend has it that when there was a shortage of labour during the war, she drove tractors on the farms around here. And then...

_He trails off, suddenly concerned that he's talking too much. With a gesture of his hand, Poirot invites him to continue._

STARK _(awkwardly):_ Well, I shouldn't be saying this, but I get the impression that Mr Branson has been tutoring His Lordship how to drive lately. The gamekeepers have seen them at it out on the estate. But I couldn't be sure, and anyway, if His Lordship wants it to be a secret, then it's none of my business.

POIROT: Naturally. If I may ask one more question, Mr Stark - is there a log kept of who uses the cars, and when?

STARK: I'm afraid not, sir.

POIROT: So it would not be possible to tell whether a car had been taken on a particular day, by a particular person?

STARK: No. _(He frowns, suddenly suspicious.)_ Why? What day did you have in mind?

POIROT _(quickly):_ None at all. I was merely wondering how these things are organised on large estates. _(With a smile)_ Who knows, one day the knowledge may even help me solve a case!

**SCENE 101**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. MORNING**

_In the hall, Carson stands ready with his note in his hand when Poirot comes in, supported by Hastings and Molesley._

CARSON: Mr Dawes telephoned while you were out, sir. I've written down what he found.

POIROT: Thank you for your trouble, Mr Carson. _(He takes the note and pockets it without looking at it.)_ Was there any mail for me, too?

CARSON: I'm afraid not, sir. Are you expecting any?

POIROT: Yes, a letter from London. Please let me know as soon as it arrives.

CARSON: Of course, sir.

_Poirot, Hastings and Molesley move on towards the stairs, only to be accosted again a moment later by Mary, who has emerged from the library, smiling in welcome._

MARY: Oh, Mr Poirot, Captain Hastings! You're back! Won't you join us for luncheon? It'll be ready any minute now.

POIROT: Alas, Lady Mary, that is most kind of you, but our little excursion has tired me out. I'm afraid I'll have to lie down as soon as may be.

MARY: But I hope you were successful?

POIROT: Oh yes. We made a most enlightening discovery.

_When Poirot doesn't elaborate, Mary turns to Hastings._

MARY: Then won't you eat with us at least, and tell us about your adventures?

_Hastings opens his mouth to reply, but Poirot is quicker._

POIROT: I fear we must disappoint you again, Lady Mary. Captain Hastings will go back directly to Crawley House now to pack. He returns to London tomorrow.

_It's hard to say who is more surprised at this news, Mary or Hastings himself, but Hastings recovers gallantly._

HASTINGS: Oh – yes. Erm, urgent business.

MARY: Nothing serious, I hope. But I'm sorry you're leaving so soon.

POIROT: It's just for the one day. He'll be back in no time.

_Hastings looks rather relieved to hear that._

MARY _(to Poirot):_ Then I hope you will take a proper rest tomorrow, after today's exertions?

POIROT: I wish I could, but tomorrow, I must go and see a doctor.

MARY: Has Dr Clarkson not been helpful?

POIROT: On the contrary, Lady Mary. Dr Clarkson has been of invaluable assistance to me in this troubling matter. But I'm afraid that it is a case for a specialist now.

MARY: Well then, I mustn't keep you. I'll tell Barrow to take your luncheon up to your room, shall I?

POIROT: That would be most welcome, Lady Mary. Thank you.

_Mary moves away._

HASTINGS: Are you sure I shouldn't stay?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ As always, I am touched by your concern, mon ami, but you need not worry about me. Mr Barrow has served me most assiduously for the past two days, and I'm sure he will continue to do so. Come and see me again tonight, so we can talk before you leave.

_Reluctantly, Hastings hands his friend over to Molesley's care. They start their slow ascent of the stairs while Hastings turns and leaves the house, with Carson holding the door open for him._

**SCENE 102**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_With luncheon cleared away, Mrs Patmore, Daisy, Molesley, Baxter, Bates and Andy are taking a tea break, sitting or standing around the central table with their cups in their hands._

MRS PATMORE: Do we know what letter from London he was talking about?

MOLESLEY: No, he didn't say.

BATES _(in a worried tone):_ Well, if the papers are right, he's as thick as thieves with the officers at Scotland Yard.

BAXTER _(in a private aside to Molesley):_ What did I tell you.

MRS PATMORE: What reason should Mr Poirot have to ask Scotland Yard to look up any of us, Mr Bates?

BATES: I couldn't tell you that, but I know what he'll find if he looks up Anna and me.

MOLESLEY: Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It may be something completely harmless.

_The bell at the back door rings. Andy puts down his cup._

ANDY: That'll be the second post.

_He walks off to fetch it in._

MOLESLEY _(in a private aside to Baxter):_ You still have the poster, don't you?

BAXTER: On the wall of my room. To remind me of my sins.

_She smiles wanly._

MOLESLEY: Good.

_Unnoticed by the others, he takes her hand and squeezes it reassuringly. Andy returns, carrying a stack of letters, but just then Carson comes downstairs, too._

CARSON: Ah, the mail. Excellent.

_He takes it from Andy and moves off in the direction of his pantry. The others look at Andy expectantly._

MOLESLEY: Well? Anything for Mr Poirot?

ANDY _(blushing):_ Er, I – I couldn't see, there was no time.

MRS PATMORE _(exasperated):_ Oh, you're hopeless!

_Andy looks crestfallen. Daisy refills his cup and nudges him gently to take it back. Her smile revives his spirits a little._

**SCENE 103**

**INT. CARSON'S PANTRY. AFTERNOON**

_Carson pushes the door to his pantry open and walks in, his eyes on the stack of mail in his hand as he sorts it. By the desk, Thomas straightens up with a start. Carson comes to an abrupt halt. Thomas quickly closes the thick binder he's been looking through._

CARSON _(frowning massively):_ What are you doing, if I may ask?

_Thomas drags up a creditable imitation of a deferent smile._

THOMAS: I'm sorry, Mr Carson, but it occurred to me that we may have forgotten to log Gertie's leave of absence correctly. I just wanted to check.

_Carson snatches the binder out of Thomas' hands and replaces it on the shelf where it belongs._

CARSON: I did _not_ forget. And you'd better make yourself useful and hand out these.

_He hands over the mail for the servants._

THOMAS: If there's anything for Mr Poirot, I can –

CARSON: Yes, there is, and _I_ am taking it up to him.

_He picks up a salver from his desk, then makes a point of waiting for Thomas to walk out of the room before him, which Thomas has no choice but to do._

**SCENE 104**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. DOWNSTAIRS CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON**

_On his mail round, Thomas has managed to corner Daisy in the open door of the store room. He leans against the door jamb, blocking her way out, and talks to her in an urgent undertone._

THOMAS: Look, I'll be missed at tea if I'm not there, but while we're in the hall, _you_ could easily pop in there and –

DAISY _(firmly):_ No, I can't. I can't steal from Mr Carson, it's not right.

THOMAS: Not steal, borrow. And it's just a piece of paper. _(He frowns.)_ Why are you being so pig-headed all of a sudden? Only yesterday, you'd have been over the moon to be asked to help out. Now's your chance, and you don't want it?

DAISY: No, I don't want it. I've thought about it, and I reckon Mr Carson's right. Mr Poirot's case is none of our business, and nothing good can come of it if we pretend that it is.

_She ducks under his arm and walks back towards the kitchen, leaving him standing there, looking extremely frustrated._


	10. Tuesday, January 21st / Evening

**SCENE 105**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. EVENING**

_Poirot sits in the armchair by the crackling fire. He holds a sheaf of typewritten pages in one hand and twirls his pince nez around the fingers of the other, deep in thought. Hastings knocks and enters. Poirot turns around and smiles at his friend._

POIROT: There you are, mon ami.

HASTINGS: Yes, and I'm glad to see you alive and well. I'm not joking. I'd never have thought it possible, but I feel bad leaving you alone in this house. Are you really sure this is a good time for me to go back to London?

_He pulls up another chair and sits down opposite his friend._

POIROT: It is very necessary that you do, Hastings.

HASTINGS: Then would you at least tell me what I'll be doing there?

POIROT: Of course. In London, you will change trains and go directly on to Hampshire, to the residence of Lord Viscount Gillingham, and you will ask him to tell you anything and everything he knows about the life and death of his former valet, Alex Green. Every little detail counts.

HASTINGS: Oh.

POIROT: Yes. And then you will return and report to me, and we will finally make sense of this strange affair. 

HASTINGS: What about Inspector Japp? _(He nods at the papers in Poirot's hand.)_ I thought you were going to ask _him_ about Green.

POIROT: I did, but his answer is most unsatisfactory. Apparently the late Alex Green is no unknown quantity at Scotland Yard, but Japp couldn't get his hands on the file. A colleague of his is sitting on it, an Inspector Vyner. I don't know the man, but he seems most unwilling to cooperate with Japp, not to mention _– (He consults the documents in his hand for the exact wording, and reads it out with a wry curl of his lip.)_ \- 'some jumped-up foreign private eye'.

HASTINGS: Suspiciously unwilling?

POIROT: No. It is probably nothing more than petty professional jealousy. But very inconvenient. The man insists it's an ongoing investigation, so he can't show us what he's got.

HASTINGS: But what could the police have on Green? Did the hotel press charges for fraud?

POIROT: Against a man who has been dead for over two years?

HASTINGS: Oh, right. That doesn't make any sense.

POIROT: No, it doesn't.

_There is another knock at the door, and Thomas comes in, carrying dinner for Poirot and his visitor on a tray. Hastings visibly tenses at the sight of him. Poirot carefully folds up his papers and puts them into the pocket of his dressing gown. Thomas starts arranging the plates, which are covered with silver serving domes to keep warm, on a small table. Poirot rises from his seat, relieved at not having to act sick for once._

POIROT: Thank you, Mr Barrow. And is that all you have for me?

_Hastings looks from one to the other, bewildered._

THOMAS: I'm afraid so, sir. I haven't managed to get my hands on it yet. I tried to recruit Daisy, but she brushed me off.

POIROT: The under-cook who was so eager to help when she found you in the wood shed?

THOMAS: She says she's changed her mind.

POIROT: Now that is most interesting. Well, no matter, Mr Barrow. I'll find another way.

_Hastings winces slightly at their familiar tone. Thomas places chairs for Poirot and Hastings at their little dinner table, and they sit down._

THOMAS _(to Poirot):_ There is something else, sir, that I've been meaning to tell you.

POIROT _(tucking a napkin into the collar of his dressing gown):_ Yes?

THOMAS: It's about the gun. Mr Branson's gun. I know I should have told you right away, but I didn't want you to think badly of Mr Branson, so…

_His voice trails off awkwardly._

POIROT: Well, what about it?

THOMAS: When Mr Branson brought it back from Lake Kilburn, sir, it was me who cleaned it and put it away. Mr Branson wanted to do it himself, but Mr Carson thought it wasn't fitting, so I got the job. And a right job it was, because it was extremely dirty.

HASTINGS: Dirty?

THOMAS: Yes, sir. Covered in mud, both inside and out, both barrels chock full of slush. 

POIROT _(perking up his ears):_ Which would not have happened in a duck blind?

THOMAS: That's what I thought. It was as if it had been dropped somewhere in the woods and lain there for days. And there's more. It had been fired, but only once. The other cartridge was still lodged in the chamber, so firmly that I had to prise it out.

HASTINGS: You mean the second shot had jammed?

THOMAS: That's how I read it, yes. It didn't worry me at first, because that might happen on any shoot. But now I wonder.

HASTINGS: About what?

THOMAS: About what exactly Mr Branson was hunting that day, sir, and why.

_Poirot and Hastings exchange a look. Thomas allows himself a moment to enjoy the effect of his words, then takes his leave. When the door closes behind him, Hastings lets out a long breath._

HASTINGS: You don't believe a single word of that, I hope?

POIROT: Why should I not?

HASTINGS: Isn't it obvious? Barrow knows we've been to Thirsk twice now, he knows we're on his trail. So now he's trying to incriminate Branson instead. 'Didn't want you to think badly of him', what a joke. Besides, Poirot, you always tell me to be suspicious of people who are unnaturally eager to help us out. Isn't that exactly what he's doing? He's practically thrown himself at you right from the word go.

POIROT: Hastings, let me put your mind at rest _. (He takes Japp_ _'s report_ _out again, selects one page and hands it to Hastings.)_ This is the only complaint that the police, both local and at Scotland Yard, have ever received about Thomas Barrow.

_Hastings takes the typewritten sheet, reads, and pulls a face._

HASTINGS: Gross indecency with a fellow worker? Am I really supposed to find that reassuring?

POIROT: An accusation that was dropped again almost as soon as it was made, as you can see. The police filed it away as a mere disgruntled employee's attempt to discredit a senior colleague out of envy and personal dislike. No further action was taken, and both the accuser and the supposed victim have since left the family's employ.

HASTINGS _(with a cynical chuckle):_ Lord Grantham would know how to clamp down on that sort of story. Well, at least we know now why Barrow was sneaking around Thirsk, arranging a secret meeting with another man.

POIROT _(impatiently):_ Hastings, please use what little grey cells you may possess, at least now and again. You know how easy such accusations are to make, and how hard to refute. Even if that past allegation was true, is it likely that Mr Barrow would so lack in caution and discretion that he would make another such appointment in person, openly wearing both the Grantham livery and his one utterly distinctive piece of accessory for all the world to see? And would he have brought along the witness who waited outside with the car? We know he doesn't drive, so he couldn't have come alone. No, the messenger was not worried about being recognised, which would have been madness if the purpose of their communication was what you think it was. You may not like the man, but please give him some credit. He's not an idiot. _(Hastings opens his mouth to object, but Poirot talks on_.) And besides, Hastings, you're not only wrong about Mr Barrrow, you're also wrong about the man who posed as Alex Green. 

HASTINGS: How do you know that?

POIROT: Do you remember wondering why the little chambermaid, Lucy, could tell us so much about the messenger's appearance but so little about their guest's? And whether Mademoiselle Lucy was trying to shield Green?

HASTINGS: Of course. I'm still wondering now.

POIROT: Then let me tell you, mon ami, that Mademoiselle Lucy was definitely not trying to mislead us. But she was teaching us a valuable lesson.

HASTINGS: A lesson in what?

POIROT: In the formation of memories in the human mind.

HASTINGS: Now you're riding too high for me, I'm afraid.

POIROT: And yet this is important to keep in mind when assessing a witness statement, Hastings. Modern science tells us that the quality of a memory depends very much on the circumstances under which it was formed. Haven't we seen it time and again in our work that the more distressed or agitated or angry a witness is in a given situation, the less reliable is his memory of it, and the less relevant detail does he retain? While the distant, accidental passer-by who observes something he is not directly involved in will often give us much more accurate information.

HASTINGS: That's true.

POIROT: So what does that tell us about this striking disparity in Mademoiselle Lucy's accounts of the two men's appearances?

HASTINGS: That she - _(He grimaces.)_ Oh. Oooh. I think I'm about to be disgusted. Am I right?

POIROT: Yes, I'm afraid you are. Mademoiselle Lucy's memories of the man who called himself Green are so hazy because they were formed under extreme stress. They were formed in situations when she was so frightened and in such terror that she could stare her opponent right in the face and yet -

HASTINGS: - not remember the colour of his eyes. Blimey, Poirot. _(Angrily)_ I have a mind to go right back and -

POIROT: Do what? Green is gone, much to poor Mademoiselle Lucy's relief, I dare say. I trust I need not recall the other little tell-tale indications that the girl gave us to make you see what kind of man this supposed Alex Green is, or was. The messenger, on the other hand, did not appear threatening or frightening to the girl at all. She felt safe around _him_. I'd even say she rather liked what she saw.

HASTINGS _(grudgingly):_ He is a handsome fellow, I'll grant him that.

_There is a long silence._

HASTINGS: You know what? Now I'm actually hoping that the man who used Green's name is _not_ our Philip Coyle. Does a man like that deserve all this trouble we're going to?

POIROT: No, he does not. But let me quote a cousin of mine who liked to say, 'I play the game for the game's own sake'. I think I have reached that point now.

HASTINGS: I was afraid you'd say that.

POIROT _(picking up his knife and fork, in a kinder tone):_ But no game is played well on an empty stomach, Hastings, so let us no longer despise this very appetising offer from Lord Grantham's kitchens. If I stay here much longer, I will become as plump as a partridge!

**SCNENE 106**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The family – Robert, Cora, Mary, Edith and Tom - are at their own dinner, attended by Carson, Thomas and Molesley._

ROBERT: I feel like we're neglecting our guest.

MARY: I asked Mr Poirot to luncheon when they came back from Thirsk, but he said he preferred to rest.

CORA: I understand. I'm sure it would kill his poor back to sit through our whole dinner again, Robert. We could ask Isobel and Captain Hastings for tomorrow, though.

MARY: No, Captain Hastings is going back to London.

ROBERT: Oh, really? _(He turns to Thomas, who stands behind him_.) Do we know why, Barrow?

THOMAS: I have no idea, my lord.

ROBERT: Oh. I thought you always knew things.

THOMAS: I'm afraid Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings don't confide the details of their investigative work to me, my lord.

_He doesn't add 'more's the pity', but he certainly thinks it. Edith and Tom exchange a look. Carson, looking scandalised at the very idea, hastens to pick up the decanter to refill the glasses._

**SCENE 107**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Poirot and Hastings have finished their meal. Hastings stacks the empty plates on the tray and then rings the bell. Poirot takes Inspector Japp_ _'s report back_ _to his armchair by the fire. Hastings joins him there a moment later._

HASTINGS: So is there more? You didn't ask Japp to look up everyone in the house, did you?

POIROT: No. But you should take a look at this.

_He hands Hastings another page._

HASTINGS _(looking over it, stunned):_ Scotland Yard have a file on Tom Branson?

POIROT: Read.

_There is a silence while Hastings reads. His frown deepens with every line and every paragraph. By the time he's finished, he looks like a man who has lost his faith in humanity. He lets the paper sink down._

HASTINGS: I can't believe this. Wilful damage to property? Arson? Militant republicanism? I'd – _(He's almost speechless with disappointment.)_ I thought he was such a decent fellow. If you'd asked, Poirot, I'd have called him a friend by now. How could I have been so mistaken? Are you sure this isn't some other Tom Branson?

POIROT: How many can there be who have Downton Abbey listed as their place of residence?

HASTINGS: But how on earth did he manage to keep this secret from the family?

POIROT: I don't suppose he ever tried. 

HASTINGS: Then how can Lord Grantham even tolerate him under his roof? Never mind in a position of trust? What are we coming to, Poirot, when the great families of this country start welcoming men like that into their midst?

POIROT: Hastings, would you despise _me_ because I had to leave my native land, driven into exile by a foreign conquering force whose brutal and tyrannical rule I could neither end nor endure?

HASTINGS: Of course not, that's not the same.

POIROT _(with emphasis):_ Oh yes, Hastings. It is exactly the same.

_There is an uncomfortable silence that only ends when the door opens and Andy comes in, bringing their after-dinner coffee._

POIROT: Ah, thank you, Andrew. _(He glances at Hastings.)_ Or do you need something a little stronger, to digest the shock?

HASTINGS _(weakly):_ I wouldn't say no to that.

_Andy puts the coffee down and collects the used dinner things._

POIROT: Oh and, Andrew, could you ask the housekeeper to step in for a moment?

ANDY _(surprised):_ Mrs Hughes?

POIROT: Yes, I believe that is her name.

ANDY: Is there anything wrong, sir? Anything you lack?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ No, on the contrary, I'm very well looked after here. I just wanted to express my gratitude to her personally.

_Andy shakes off his unease, nods and departs._

**SCENE 108**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Andy has come downstairs with the remains of Poirot and Hastings' dinner. Mrs Patmore, Mrs Hughes and Daisy listen as he relays Poirot's request to speak to Mrs Hughes._

MRS HUGHES _(alarmed):_ What, me? What does he want with me?

ANDY: He just wants to thank you, he said.

MRS HUGHES: Yes, and pigs might fly. _(She sighs.)_ Well, there's no help for it. Wish me luck.

_She departs for the stairs. The other three watch her go, looking anxious._

**SCENE 109**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Poirot and Hastings are having their coffee by the fireplace. Mrs Hughes knocks and enters, looking remarkably calm and composed._

MRS HUGHES: You wanted to see me, sir?

POIROT: Yes, Mrs Hughes. Thank you for sparing me a moment of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going back to Birkby Manor tomorrow. Do you have anything for your sister that I could take there for you?

MRS HUGHES _(honestly surprised):_ Oh. Oh, well, that's a very kind offer, sir. I will give you a letter for her, if I may _. (There is an awkward pause.)_ I – I assume that you thought it dishonest of me to –

POIROT: - to keep her existence secret from those around you? Not at all. Not everyone shares Dr Latimer's admirable tolerance and indeed affection for those whose minds work differently from ours.

MRS HUGHES: Yes, that's true, unfortunately.

POIROT: I assume it has cost you a great effort to keep this secret for so long.

MRS HUGHES: Yes, it's taken effort, and nerve, and quite a bit of heartache, too, to be honest. But I still prefer it this way.

POIROT: I respect that, Mrs Hughes. Indeed, I admire it. And I see no reason to render your sacrifice null and void by thoughtlessly exposing it to the prying eyes of others.

_Mrs Hughes relaxes visibly._

MRS HUGHES: You really are very kind, sir. I wish there was something I could do to repay your generosity.

POIROT: As a matter of fact, Mrs Hughes, there is. It is a request that I hesitate to put to Lord Grantham directly, or to Mr Carson, lest they should misunderstand my intentions. But I'm sure that you won't. 

**SCENE 110**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Mrs Patmore, Daisy and Andy are still gathered in the kitchen. The women have resumed their work, clearing away the remains of the family_ _'s dinner and getting the servants' ready,_ _but they're still on the topic of Poirot and Hastings' newest plans._

MRS PATMORE: So what shock was Mr Poirot talking about there?

ANDY: I don't know, but Captain Hastings looked quite pale. Maybe they got bad news in that letter from London. I thought they had it in their hands when I came up. But I was –

MRS PATMORE _(exasperated):_ Yes, yes, we know. Too far away to see what it was about.

DAISY _(with a frown):_ That's not Andy's fault though, is it?

 _Mrs Hughes comes hurrying downstairs. She's looking quite pale herself now._ _The others look at her expectantly._

MRS PATMORE: Well, what did he want?  
MRS HUGHES: He's asked to see the staff rota for January 6th.

MRS PATMORE _(astonished):_ Did I hear that right?

MRS HUGHES: Well, what _I_ hear are the footsteps of doom. There's only so long that I can pretend I haven't got round to looking it up yet.

_She covers her face with her hands for a moment and takes a deep breath to calm herself down._

MRS PATMORE: Can't you say we threw it out?

MRS HUGHES: He's not going to believe that. He'll know that every house like this keeps them for a month, in case there's a dispute about the wages or about time off. _(She looks around at the others.)_ I'm sorry, I think I have to be alone for a moment. 

_She walks off in the direction of her sitting room. The others exchange extremely uneasy looks._

**SCENE 111**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. NIGHT**

_Robert comes out of the dining room, followed by Carson, who carries a tray with a decanter of whisky and several tumblers. They ascend the stairs._

**SCENE 112**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE SERVANTS** ' **HALL. NIGHT**

 _Daisy walks in to lay the table for the servants_ _' dinner and finds herself alone in the room with Thomas, who sits at the long table smoking. Avoiding his eyes, she starts placing the plates._

THOMAS: I told Mr Poirot that you wanted to help him investigate. And I also told him that you suddenly stopped wanting to help him investigate.

DAISY: So?

THOMAS: He said he found it interesting.

_Daisy shrugs. Thomas takes another drag on his cigarette._

THOMAS: Isn't that a curious choice of words? I would've said irritating. He said 'interesting'. Why is it interesting, Daisy?

DAISY: I don't know. Why don't you ask him?

THOMAS: I'm asking you. What happened to change your mind?

DAISY: Nothing. 

_Daisy is saved from further questioning by Bates, who comes in together with Anna and Baxter._

BATES _(to Thomas):_ You do know that Mr Carson doesn't like smoke in here just before a meal?

_Thomas purses his lips, then takes another drag._

THOMAS: And I don't like lies in here just before a meal.

_Under the cover of Bates and Thomas exchanging dirty looks and Anna marching over to throw open a window, Daisy escapes back to the kitchen._

**SCENE 113**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Poirot and Hastings are again interrupted by a knock on the door. This time, it is Robert who comes in, followed by Carson. Hastings, who was putting a fresh log on the fire, straightens up in surprise._

ROBERT: I'm sorry to barge in, gentlemen. But as Carson told me that Captain Hastings was still here, too, and we've barely seen anything of each other so far, I thought I'd look in. To quote Francis Bacon, 'If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the mountain.'

POIROT: You're very welcome, Lord Grantham.

_He makes a move to heave himself out of his armchair – the only comfortable chair in the room – to give it up to the Earl, but Robert waves him down again._

ROBERT: No, no fuss, please. _(He exchanges a look with Carson, who places an additional chair for him.)_ I come bearing a gift. Our finest Laphroaig.

HASTINGS: You spoil your guests, Lord Grantham.

ROBERT _(with a chuckle):_ No, I'm spoiling myself and using you as an excuse.

 _The men laugh. Robert sits, and_ _Carson starts pouring and serving the drinks._

ROBERT _(to Poirot):_ By the way, Tom Branson sends his best wishes for your speedy recovery, too, but he asks to be excused. He's hoping to catch his cousin in Boston on the phone before they close the office over there.

POIROT: Of course.

_Carson takes his leave. Robert raises his glass to his guests. He and Hastings drink._

ROBERT _(to Hastings):_ I've been trying to quiz Tom about your sleuthing work in Thirsk, but he's kept pretty mum about it. All he'd say was that you didn't find any Philip Coyle there.

HASTINGS: Erm, no. We didn't.

 _Robert looks a little disappointed when Hastings doesn_ _'t elaborate._

POIROT: Discretion is the essence of a detective's work, Lord Grantham. You mustn't think badly of Mr Branson if he's adopted our guiding principle. 

ROBERT: Oh, I couldn't think badly of Tom Branson, no matter what. It may surprise you to hear that he has a rather colourful past, but he has put his heart and soul into our family's life and livelihood for years now. _(He gestures around the room.)_ We Crawleys would probably not even be here any more if it wasn't for him. My other son-in-law, Matthew, opened my eyes to what needed to be done, but it was Tom who saw it through. I still can't believe he's leaving. He's been talking about it for so long that we all got used to the idea that it was just that, talk.

 _Robert falls silent and takes another sip of his whisky. Hastings imitates him. Poirot still hasn_ _'t touched his drink._

POIROT: This decision to go to America – it has been long in the coming? It is not a recent development?

ROBERT: Oh, no. He's been planning it for years. We officially said goodbye at Christmas. He's still here only because we needed a bit more time for the handover.

POIROT _(with a twinkle in his eyes):_ And for driving lessons?

ROBERT _(with a laugh):_ Oh, has he told you that? Well, I admit it, I've started to feel a bit ridiculous, not being able to make my way around my own estate. And it'll be a while yet before George can drive me. But I'm afraid we haven't made much headway. But he'd still rather waste his few remaining days here on my sorry attempts to be a modern man than let me down. That's who Tom Branson is. No, I don't mind saying it - I am blessed, truly blessed, to call Tom my son, and no man could ask for more.

 _Silence again. With a sudden crackling noise and a shower of sparks, the logs in the fireplace collapse onto each other, illuminating the three men_ _'s faces – Robert_ _'s pensive and rather melancholy, Poirot's sympathetic, and Hastings' very, very sheepish._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year to everyone who is reading this story! Stay safe, everyone, and may this new year be a better one than the one that is ending.


	11. Wednesday, January 22nd 1925 / Morning

**WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 22 nd 1925 **

****

****

**SCENE 114**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. MORNING**

_The next morning, the kitchen staff are busy getting the family's breakfast ready. Andy and Molesley stand by to take dishes to the dining room. Anna is just leaving with Mary_ ' _s tray while Mrs Patmore and Baxter put the finishing touches to Cora_ _'_ _s._ _A third tray stands ready nearby, the plate covered with a serving dome. When Daisy goes into the scullery to fetch something, Baxter addresses Mrs Patmore in an undertone._

BAXTER: Don't get me wrong, please – I'm not saying you made a mistake, but I'm worried. If Thomas sees her as the weakest link in the chain, he'll just keep hammering at her until she cracks.

MRS PATMORE: I know that, and I warned her, but she said she'd rather share the load than be left out. I've told her she can report sick and hide upstairs any time if he doesn't leave her alone.

BAXTER: Good. Thank you.

 _She picks up Cora_ _'_ _s tray. In the doorway, she passes Thomas, who has just come downstairs._

THOMAS _(to the room at large):_ Mr Poirot's dressed and waiting for his breakfast.

MRS PATMORE _(drying her hands on a towel):_ Then he's a lucky man, because there's his breakfast waiting for him.

_She points with her chin. Thomas looks at the tray with a frown._

THOMAS: What happened to 'one slice of toast and two soft-boiled eggs'?

MRS PATMORE _(with a shrug):_ He wants a full cooked breakfast today. He told Mrs Hughes last night.

THOMAS: Why was he talking to Mrs Hughes?

MRS PATMORE _(tartly):_ Well, you've talked to him more than the rest of us put together. Maybe it's just her turn now.

_Thomas reaches across to lift the serving dome and look underneath, but Mrs Patmore slaps his hand away with her towel before he can touch it._

MRS PATMORE: Careful! Hot! _(She turns to Andy.)_ Run up now, will you, Andy, before Mr Barrow makes it all go cold.

_Andy nods and scoops up the tray right from under Thomas' nose. Thomas watches him out of the room, highly annoyed. Behind his back, Mrs Patmore and Molesley share a furtive sigh of relief._

**SCENE 115**

**INT. CORA** **'S BEDROOM. MORNING**

_Cora sits in bed with her own breakfast. Robert, dressed and ready to go down, perches on his side of the bed._

ROBERT: … so I don't see that I've done any harm, but now I understand what they write about his talent for making people talk. I don't know how he does it, but it's like a spell.

CORA: I know, and I know someone who's already fallen victim to it.

ROBERT: What do you mean?

CORA: Edith. She's having nightmares. She's worried that Mr Poirot will let something slip about Marigold.

ROBERT _(alarmed):_ She's told him about Marigold? 

CORA: She swears she didn't, but he knows anyway. I told Edith to go up to London for a few days, to take her mind off things and wait for everything to blow over. But she said she couldn't go, it would be unfair.

ROBERT: Unfair? To whom? _(Cora shrugs.)_ Well, Mr Poirot's presence certainly isn't doing anything to lift people's spirits, that's true. Tom hasn't been himself, either. Only Mary seems not to care one way or the other.

CORA: Not to mention what it's doing to the atmosphere downstairs. Carson is on edge because of all the whispering, and Baxter is absolutely terrified.

ROBERT: What? Why?

CORA: She knew a man once with the same last name as the man Mr Poirot is looking for, and she'd rather not be reminded of him.

ROBERT: Oh, I see.

CORA: And I should never have told Mr Poirot about my gloves. I should have realised that I was putting my maid in a bad light.

ROBERT: But Mary explained -

CORA: Still. And if this goes on much longer, it's only a matter of time until the Bateses crack, too.

ROBERT: What? What have the Bateses got to do with anything?

CORA: They don't, I'm sure, but that's never stopped the police from trying to grind them down, has it? And Mr Poirot is known to have the ear of Scotland Yard. If he finds out about their record, and gets any ideas...

ROBERT _(with a sigh):_ Will this never stop haunting them?

CORA: Not until someone finally lays that ghost forever.

**SCENE 116**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. MORNING**

_Poirot, also fully dressed, sits at the little table in his room with his breakfast. In the background, Andy tends to the fire. When Poirot lifts the serving dome, he finds his usual one slice of toast and two soft-boiled eggs underneath, but also a large envelope. Inside, he finds a smaller one addressed to_ _'Rebecca Hughes' and a separate folded sheet of paper. Poirot_ _pockets the letter and unfolds the paper. It is the staff rota for January_ 6th _, taken out of the binder in Carson's pantry. Poirot takes a sip of his tea, shudders, then puts his pince nez on and starts reading. When Andy is done stoking up the fire, Poirot turns to him._

POIROT: Help me read a riddle, Andrew.

ANDY: Yes, sir?

POIROT: Is it usual in this house for the butler, the housekeeper, His Lordship's valet and a lady's maid to all get the same evening off?

_He holds out the paper to Andy. Andy takes it and looks over it with a frown._

ANDY: Well, no, but January 6th was special. Have they told you that Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes are getting married? They went out to dinner that night to celebrate their engagement, at The Netherby in Ripon.

POIROT: Ah. And Mr and Mrs Bates were invited?

ANDY: No, I don't think there were any guests, just the two of them. We called the hotel to surprise them with a glass of champagne when they got there, but that was all the fuss Mrs Hughes would allow.

POIROT: Who arranged for the champagne?

ANDY: Oh, everyone downstairs. We all chipped in.

POIROT: What a touching gesture.

ANDY: This is a good place, sir. People mean well and look after each other.

POIROT: I don't doubt it.

_Andy hands the paper back._

POIROT: So Mr and Mrs Bates, did they go out to dinner somewhere, too, do you know?

ANDY: No, they went to the theatre in York. Mr Bates had got them the tickets as a Christmas present, what with - with it being Christmas, and all. Miss Baxter admired the tickets in the servants' hall. She liked the artwork on them, said she'd love to use it in an embroidery pattern or something. So she asked the Bateses to keep the tickets for her and not throw them out.

POIROT: And did Miss Baxter get to keep them?

ANDY: Better than that, even. Mrs Bates asked at the theatre if she could have one of the posters they'd put up, seeing as it was the company's last night there, and they gave it to her for free. Miss Baxter was over the moon when they came back with it the next day.

POIROT: The Bateses were away the whole night?

ANDY: Yes, there's no train that late, so they stayed over at a pub. They're friends with the landlord and his wife.

POIROT: Ah. And do you know what play they went to see?

ANDY: Twelfth Night by Shakespeare.

POIROT: Mmh. Very fitting. So how did the rest of you cope, with these four pillars of the household away? I assume it must have been a very busy night?

ANDY: No, not that bad. Mr Barrow and us footmen can easily take care of dinner between us if it's just the family.

POIROT: But the whole family was there?

ANDY: I think so. I remember that Mr Branson took a phone call half-way through. It was his daughter's new school over in Boston, telling him she had a place there. The family toasted that when he came back.

POIROT _(consulting the paper in his hand):_ According to this, Mr Molesley seems not to have been on duty, either. _(He points at a note on the paper. Andy leans in to look.)_ Doesn't this say, 'off sick'?

ANDY: Well, it's - the writing's a bit hard to make out, isn't it?

POIROT: _Was_ he off sick?

ANDY: Well, he – yes, he was. I'd forgotten. He went upstairs some time before dinner because he wasn't feeling well. I looked in on him before I went to bed myself, but he was already asleep then. He was still a bit off-colour in the morning.

POIROT: All in all, an eventful night, January 6th?

ANDY: You could say so, sir. Well, I'll leave you to your breakfast, if that's all?

_Poirot nods, and Andy takes his leave. Poirot watches him out until the door has closed, then he chuckles mischievously._

POIROT: Eventful enough for you to remember it in striking detail, my young friend.

**SCENE 117**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. MORNING**

_Andy takes a few long strides away from Poirot_ _'s room, just short of breaking into a run. When he's turned the corner and reached the gallery, he stops and stands there for a few moments, his hand clamped over his mouth, eyes closed, as if he_ _'s about to be sick_ _. Edith appears at the other end of the gallery._

EDITH: Andrew? Are you all right?  
_Andy whirls around at the sound of her voice, but relaxes a little when he sees who it is._

ANDY: I'm sorry, my lady, I - it's just that every time I come out of that room, I feel like I've run a mile with a pack of wild dogs on my heels.

EDITH: I know. I feel the same. It's time this was over.

_Back down in the hall, unseen by the two above, Thomas, who is standing by the fireplace, glances up, listening hard._

**SCENE 118**

**INT. THE GILLINGHAM** **'S** **HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. DAY**

 _Hastings has arrived at the Gillingham_ _'s estate and been shown into the drawing room of the former Dower House where Viscount Gillingham and his wife now live. It's a tastefully furnished room, pleasantly lit by large windows, but built on a much smaller scale than Downton. Outside the windows, there is a well-kept garden, and beyond the garden wall, a larger park where groups of uniformed school girls can be seen walking to and fro during their midday break. Hastings stands by a window when Mabel, née Lane Fox, now Viscountess Gillingham, enters._

MABEL: I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, Captain. What can I do for the famous Mr Poirot?

HASTINGS: Lady Gillingham.

_She holds out her hand and shakes his in a business-like manner._

HASTINGS: I had hoped to speak with Lord Gillingham.

MABEL: He's in a meeting with one of our tenants, and he may be for another hour. But please put your questions to me. I assure you that I enjoy my husband's full confidence in all matters of business.

HASTINGS: I'm sure of that, but… I'm afraid my enquiry concerns a private matter from before Lord Gillingham's marriage.

_Mabel's razor-thin eyebrows rise in intense indignation._

MABEL: I _beg_ your pardon?

HASTINGS _(quickly):_ No, no, I'm sorry, I'm expressing myself very badly. All I meant to say is, he could be a valuable witness.

MABEL: Ah. That sounds better.

**SCENE 119**

**EXT. BIRKBY MANOR. DAY**

_Hercule Poirot and Dr Latimer, the director of the asylum at Birkby Manor, are taking a walk across the fields surrounding the house. Dr Latimer points with a sweeping gesture._

DR LATIMER: …but from here onwards, most of the land is leased to local farmers. There is only so much that we can do ourselves.

POIROT: And I hear there is a famous view to be had from the other side of that little wood there?

DR LATIMER: Yes, at the ruined chapel. It's a short walk, but quite pleasant. If you're up for it?

POIROT: Certainly. It can't hurt to familiarise myself with the lie of the land.

_They descend towards the edge of the wood below the manor._

DR LATIMER: How come you're still interested in our resident's death, if I may ask? I had got the impression, when we last talked, that he was not the same person who had gone missing in Thirsk and whom you were trying to trace.

POIROT: No, I am still convinced of that, they are not the same. But something that you said last time stuck in my mind. You told me you were writing a book on the various kinds of insanity and their treatment, did you not?

DR LATIMER: Yes, I did.

POIROT: And you said that Edward Wilkinson's case would feature prominently in it because it was so interesting to you.

DR LATIMER: Yes, that's true.

POIROT: But interesting in what way? A man who is known to suffer from severe paranoia rambles about the Last Judgement and the end of time, goes off into the wilderness, and the demons in his head end up chasing him in front of a train. That is a pitiable and tragic event, surely, but there must be hundreds of examples like this in the history of insanity.

DR LATIMER: I'd say the feature that intrigued me most in Wilkinson's case were the newspaper clippings.

POIROT: Ah? What newspaper clippings?

DR LATIMER: Well, not clippings, really. Not specific articles. Just pieces randomly cut from a newspaper. They were found on and near his body, strewn all over the tracks, and blown into the nearby bushes, dozens of them.

POIROT: What size were they?

DR LATIMER _(indicating the shape with his fingers):_ Like this. Roughly the size of a ten pound note.

POIROT: Did you keep any of them?

DR LATIMER: I kept all of them, all that could be retrieved. I can tell you, I've brooded over them many a night since, trying to understand what significance Wilkinson attached to them, to carry them around with him at the time of his death. But I can't make head nor tail of them. All I can see is that they were cut from the same newspaper on the same day.

POIROT: Let me hazard a guess – The Times of January 6th?

_Dr Latimer stops short and stares at Poirot in amazement._

DR LATIMER: How did you know that?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ I promise you, Doctor, that once _I_ see their significance clearly, I will share it with you.

_They continue their walk, entering the wintery wood by a narrow forest path._

POIROT: Can you hazard a guess where Wilkinson may have got his hands on a copy of The Times on the day of his death?

DR LATIMER: No, not at all. We don't take The Times at the manor. It's too complex for most of our residents, even for the literate ones.

POIROT: Could Mr Wilkinson have been sheltered by someone nearby during the days of his absence, and picked it up there?

DR LATIMER: No. We asked far and wide when we were looking for him. None of the farms and none of the local villagers had taken him in. Anyone around here would have realised immediately where he belonged, and let us know.

POIROT: Then did it not strike you as remarkable that Mr Wilkinson had even survived until his tragic death, alone and out in the open, at this time of the year? How long exactly was he gone?

DR LATIMER: He went off on the 3rd. _(He runs a hand through his mane of grey hair.)_ You're right, Mr Poirot. I don't know why I didn't wonder about that before. I should have. It was pretty cold back then, too, colder than now. What does that mean?

POIROT: I will tell you that, too, as soon as I fully understand it myself.

_A short while later, they emerge from the wood onto a clearing dominated by the ruin of a Cistercian chapel. With the trees at its back, it sits on the grassy edge of a long hill that stretches north and south for several miles, overlooking the green Wiske Valley with the main road and the railway line at its bottom. The two men stand admiring the view for a moment._

POIROT: It is indeed a marvellous view.

DR LATIMER: Isn't it? This is quite a very popular place when the weather is fine. On clear days, you can see almost as far as the Tees Valley. It seems remote, but we're barely half an hour's walk from the main road. _(He points downhill.)_ There's a well-trodden public footpath that leads directly down here to the level crossing by the Wiske Bridge.

_Poirot nods, then goes to inspect the ruin itself. It's a small and unpretentious building, the roof long gone, only the stone walls bearing witness to its former shape and purpose, with small empty windows on either side of the door opening and a beaten earth floor strewn with rubble. There's nothing inside it that incites Poirot's curiosity, so he continues his stroll across the clearing outside. Dr Latimer watches him with interest._

DR LATIMER: What are you looking for?

POIROT: At the danger of sounding purposefully mysterious, Doctor – I'll know it when I see it.

_But his inspection of the damp grass around the chapel yields nothing of interest, either. Poirot then risks ruining his fine patent leather shoes by turning onto the muddy public footpath that leads down into the valley, followed by Dr Latimer. Poirot has barely walked ten yards when he suddenly stoops down. His gloved hand picks up a small, cylindrical object from the wayside and holds it up._

DR LATIMER: A spent shell from a shotgun. Well, a lot of people come here to shoot. You'll find plenty of those around here.

POIROT: I wonder.

**SCENE 120**

**INT. THE GILLINGHAM** **'S HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. DAY  
**

_A little later, Lord Gillingham has concluded his conference with his tenant and joined his wife and Hastings in the drawing room. The Gillinghams sit side by side on a sofa, with Hastings in an armchair across from them, each holding a steaming tea cup. Hastings has also taken out his notebook again._

GILLINGHAM: … so he would have joined the household in, let me think - April 1922.

HASTINGS: How did you find him?

GILLINGHAM: Through an agency for temporary staff, I'm afraid. I know it's not the good old-fashioned way, with recommendations and references and all that. But I wasn't looking for a permanent valet then. We were moving here from the big house and downsizing rather brutally at the time, so a man just for me wasn't really on the table. But then I was invited to stay with friends of mine who still live rather grandly, and I didn't want them to think I was letting things slide, so I got Green to accompany me on that trip. And I will admit that I got so used to having him that I didn't want to let go of him again, if I could stretch our resources to accommodate him, and I just about could. So he stayed on.

HASTINGS: Was he a good worker?

GILLINGHAM: I had no complaints.

_At her husband's side, Mabel shifts._

HASTINGS _(with a glance at Mabel):_ But …?

GILLINGHAM: I'd be lying if I said that he was popular with the rest of the staff. I gathered that he was a rather loud and brash fellow, among his equals. But as I said, I was lucky to have anyone at all, so I wasn't going to be picky.

MABEL _(taking a sip of her tea):_ I hated him. I'm glad he's gone.

_The two men are rather taken aback by this frank declaration._

GILLINGHAM: That's harsh, Mabel.

MABEL: But true. He never dared be impertinent with me, but I hated the way he looked at your maids. Or at anyone else in a skirt, for that matter.

GILLINGHAM: Why did you never tell me that?

MABEL: Well, you were in hot pursuit of someone other than me at the time, so I wasn't going to lower my chances even further by criticising your staffing decisions.

_There is an awkward pause. Gillingham looks rather sheepish. Hastings quickly changes the subject._

HASTINGS: Would you tell me what you know about the circumstances of Alex Green's death?

GILLINGHAM: He fell into the road in Piccadilly Circus, in front of a double-decker bus that then went over him. He didn't stand a chance.

HASTINGS: Were you called to identify the body?

GILLINGHAM: Yes, I was. But I've seen my share of mangled bodies in the war, so I wasn't keen to look too closely. Besides, there wasn't much to identify him by, with –

_He glances at his wife, concerned._

MABEL _(coolly):_ \- with his face all smashed up, you mean.

GILLINGHAM: Yes. The only reason why we're sure it was him was that he still had the case with my pocket watch on him. It had miraculously survived the collision unscathed.

HASTINGS: What pocket watch was this?

GILLINGHAM: I'd asked him to take it to the watchmaker for a repair and cleaning. He was on his way there when the accident occurred. My name was on the case, that's how the police knew to contact me.

HASTINGS: And did they tell you any more details about what happened?

GILLINGHAM: At the time? Not really. They said that some witnesses remembered a young man who tried to comfort him and keep him alive until the ambulance came. I wanted to thank that man and reward him for his kindness, but his name was not in the police report, and there was no other way of tracing him.

HASTINGS: And were you the one who broke the sad news to Green's family?

GILLINGHAM: I would have seen that as my responsibility, yes, if he'd had any family. But we knew of none, and neither did the agency. So I paid for a modest grave at Kensal Green, and that was that.

HASTINGS: Do you know anything about his antecedents? Previous places of employment, and so on?

GILLINGHAM: I know he was in the war, but who wasn't? Besides that, no, nothing. He wasn't the type of person to invite questions like that.

MABEL _(to her husband):_ And you're not the type of person who'd ask.

GILLINGHAM: But he never volunteered anything, either. _(To Hastings)_ It is strange, now that I think about it. It was as if he had no private life at all. Like a man without a past. I can tell you I was stunned when I learned, months later, that he must have made a mortal enemy, and his death was the subject of a murder enquiry.

_Lord Gillingham may have been stunned back then, but he can have been hardly more stunned than Hastings is at this moment._


	12. Wednesday, January 22nd 1925 / Afternoon to Evening

**SCENE 121**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot returns to Downton Abbey from his excursion to Birkby Manor. Just as the taxi he_ _'_ _s travelling in comes up the drive, the Dowager Countess of Grantham_ ' _s car, which was parked at the front door, moves on towards the stable yard. The taxi takes its place and halts. Andy comes out of the house to hold the car door open, followed by Thomas, who offers Poirot his arm to help him out._

POIROT: Ah, thank you. _(He pulls out his wallet and hands it to Andy.)_ Will you please see the driver remunerated for his trouble, Andrew?

_Andy nods and moves around the car to the driver_ _'s side. As soon as his back is turned, Poirot digs into his pocket again and takes out the shell that he found on the ground near the ruined chapel. He drops it wordlessly into Thomas' hand. Thomas stares at it, then looks back up at Poirot._

POIROT _(with a wry smile):_ No dragging your feet this time, Mr Barrow. Yes or no?

_Thomas nods 'yes'._

**SCENE 122**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. DOWNSTAIRS CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON**

_Having seen Poirot into the house, Thomas and Andy come downstairs and walk along the passage towards the kitchen together._

THOMAS: So what's the old lady doing here?

ANDY: She's asked to see Lady Mary.

THOMAS: Do we know why?

ANDY: If you're brave enough to ask her, maybe she'll tell you. I'm not.

THOMAS _(with a smirk):_ You'll never make a good servant, Andy, you're not nearly curious enough.

_Andy chuckles. They pass the boot room where Anna and Bates are working when Carson appears at the kitchen end of the passage and calls to them._

CARSON: Hurry up, please! Or are you planning to tell the Dowager Countess that it's the new fashion to drink one's tea cold?

THOMAS _(to Andy):_ Hang on. I've forgotten something. Go ahead, I won't be a minute.

 _Andy shrugs and continues towards the kitchen while Thomas doubles back to the passage leading to the boot room. He stands just outside the open door, unseen by those inside, and listens. The voice of_ _Bates_ _comes drifting out._

**SCENE 123**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BOOT ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Bates and Anna are at the work bench, brushing a hat and cleaning a pair of women_ _s_ _shoes, respectively._

BATES: … but I won't deny that I've started wishing Mr Barrow _had_ smothered him with his own pillow.

ANNA: I would tell you off for even thinking such things, if I didn't feel the same.

BATES: And we're not the only ones. Did you know Mr Molesley nearly had a nervous breakdown this morning when Mr Carson told him to go and collect Mr Poirot's breakfast things?

ANNA: So you volunteered again? I wish you'd stop talking to him.

BATES: How will we find out what he's up to if I don't?

ANNA: Any luck?

BATES: No, we just chatted about the theatre.

ANNA: How come?

BATES _(with a shrug):_ He likes to go, too, apparently. He wanted to hear all about Twelfth Night in York.

ANNA: It's strange though, isn't it? The press love him and people praise him far and wide, but here with us, he's just bringing out the worst in everyone. Even Lady Mary is nervous.

BATES: Well, he's bringing out the worst in Thomas Barrow, that's for sure. What was he doing, bullying poor Daisy last night?

ANNA: I don't know. But I do know that Mr Poirot has to go before _we_ all go mad.

_Done with her work, she gets to her feet, prompting Thomas to hurry off to the kitchen before he_ _'s caught._

**SCENE 124**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_Thomas joins Carson and Andy in the doorway of the kitchen as they wait for Daisy and Mrs Patmore to get the respective tea trays for the two guests ready. Mrs Patmore puts plates with cake onto each. Just then, the door of Mrs Hughes_ _sitting room opens, and to the three men's surprise, it is Edith who comes out, accompanied by the housekeeper, both looking very grave._

MRS HUGHES _(to Edith):_ We will find a solution, my lady, I promise.

_The men stand to attention as Edith walks past them. She nods at them distractedly. The clicking of her heels on the stone flags of the passage nearly drowns out the hasty, whispered conversation that is going on at the kitchen table at the same time, but Thomas, who stands closest to it, catches the moment out of the corner of his eye._

MRS PATMORE _(to Daisy, pointing):_ No, Mr Poirot's is the one over there.

_Daisy takes the lid off the tea pot on Poirot_ _'s tray, then hesitates._

DAISY: Are you sure about this?

MRS PATMORE: Yes, quite sure, now hurry up and do it. Four spoons.

DAISY _(pulling a face):_ Four?

MRS PATMORE: Oh, give it here.

_Mrs Patmore picks up a metal box from the table and quickly stirs spoon after spoon of a white powdery substance into the steaming pot, then replaces the lid just as Edith_ _'s steps recede into the distance, allowing the manservants to relax their stance._

MRS PATMORE _(to the men):_ All right, up you go.

_Andy moves forward but Thomas, making a sudden decision, shoulders him aside._

THOMAS: I'll take that one.

_He picks up Poirot's tray before Andy can get to it._

CARSON: No, you don't! _(He snatches the tray back from Thomas and hands it to Andy instead, who departs with it.)_ What a curious idea of precedence you have, Mr Barrow. Of course the Dowager Countess of Grantham is served by the under-butler, and the private detective is served by the second footman. What on earth makes you think that it should be the other way around?

_Thomas gives Carson a murderous look, then scoops up Violet_ _'s tea tray and runs up the stairs after Andy._

**SCENE 125**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. BACK STAIRS. AFTERNOON**

_Thomas, the tea set on his tray rattling precariously, comes rushing up the stairs._

THOMAS _(calling after his colleague):_ Andy? Andy!

_But there is no answer, except for a door closing on the floor above. Thomas heaves a frustrated sigh, then shoulders open the green baize door into the hall._

**SCENE 126**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE DRAWING ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Violet and Mary are seated in armchairs opposite each other when Thomas barges in, hurries across the room and sets the tray down on the side table with an audible clank. The two ladies look up in surprise at his lack of ceremony._

VIOLET: Oh, Barrow, do be kind to our Meissen.

THOMAS _(distractedly):_ I'm sorry, my lady.

_He quickly pours her a cup of tea and manages to spill the milk in his haste. Mary watches this undignified behaviour with narrowed eyes._

MARY _(to Thomas):_ What's wrong with you?

_Thomas hands Violet her cup._

THOMAS: Nothing, my lady. Would you - ?

MARY _(coolly):_ I think I'll rather pour it myself. I don't want it all over my lap.

THOMAS: Thank you.

_He even forgets to be annoyed at her unkindness. Nearly falling over his feet, he backs out of the room as fast as he can. The door clicks shut behind him._

VIOLET _(to Mary):_ And you're still sure that Cousin Isobel is right when she tells us to just wait and see what happens? When even the servants are losing their minds?

**SCENE 127**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. AFTERNOON**

_Once outside the drawing room, no longer hampered by the tea tray, Thomas breaks into a genuine run. Back stairs be damned, he races full tilt across the hall to the great staircase and up to the gallery, three steps at a time._

**SCENE 128**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON**

_Andy, having delivered Poirot's tea, exits the guest bedroom and closes the door behind him when Thomas comes hurtling around the corner into the passage._

ANDY: What - hey!

_Without a word of explanation, Thomas has shoved him out of the way, covered the last few paces to Poirot's room and yanked the door open._

**SCENE 129**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot sits in his armchair by the fire, holding a gently steaming cup, when Thomas bursts into the room and comes to a skittering halt. Andy hovers behind him in the open door, looking utterly bewildered._

THOMAS: Mr Poirot! Don't drink that tea!

 _Poirot looks up in amazement at the agitated servant, but he doesn_ _t lower his cup._

POIROT: Why not?

THOMAS: Because –

_Poirot lifts his cup to his lips._

THOMAS: No! Don't! _(He lunges forward, ready to knock the cup out of Poirot's hand.)_ It could be -

POIROT _(calmly):_ It's exactly as I asked – a tisane of chamomile with four spoons of sugar. _(He takes another sip and savours the taste with the air of a connoisseur.)_ It felt somewhat rude to make any more special requests to your kitchen staff, but I'm afraid my stomach cannot stand what you English call "proper tea", not for days on end. Did they not tell you?

_Thomas stands there for a moment, completely dumbfounded. Then his shoulders slump as the depth of his idiocy starts to sink in. Poirot smiles sympathetically. Andy, at the door, is convulsed with silent laughter._

**SCENE 130**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_Andy has returned to the kitchen to relate with glee what he_ ' _s just witnessed in Poirot's room. Daisy is laughing heartily. Mrs Patmore, Carson and Mrs Hughes are listening with more composure._

ANDY: - and then he said –

_There is the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Mrs Patmore raises her eyebrows in warning._

MRS PATMORE: Here he comes now.

_All five of them make an effort to wipe their faces blank before Thomas enters. He looks around at the others, outwardly unfazed. He has either recovered remarkably or is at least is doing a good job of pretending._

THOMAS: What's so funny?

MRS PATMORE: Nothing.

 _There_ ' _s an awkward silence, until Daisy can't help herself any longer._

DAISY: Did you really think we were going to poison Mr Poirot with his tea?

THOMAS _(dismissively):_ Of course not. I don't know what Andy's told you, but I guarantee you that he's completely misread the situation.

MRS PATMORE: Oh, has he? I don't know that there was a lot to misread.

_Andy and Daisy exchange a look and break into a fresh bout of giggles._

THOMAS _(to Mrs Patmore):_ I thought you'd mixed up the tea pots. I assumed the Dowager wouldn't be amused to be mistaken for a child with a bellyache, that's all.

_No one is buying it. Thomas turns to appeal to Carson._

THOMAS _(in a dignified tone):_ Mr Carson, is it right that I'm being ridiculed for trying to correct someone else's mistakes?

MRS PATMORE _(bristling):_ Ah, so it's my fault now?

MRS HUGHES _(in a conciliatory voice):_ Now, now, it's nobody's fault, and there's no harm done. I think we can leave it at that.

_She gives Andy and Daisy a sharp look._

CARSON _(to Mrs Hughes):_ Well, if you think so. _(To Andy)_ Then we will speak no more of this, Andrew. _(He turns to Thomas.)_ And you, Mr Barrow, will kindly remember that you're here to work, not to be the tragic hero in a cloak-and-dagger story.

_He walks away, followed by Mrs Hughes, who gives Thomas_ _' arm a little sympathetic pat as she passes him. It does little to lift his spirits. With a last dark look at Andy, Thomas stalks off in the direction of the servants' hall. Andy whispers to Daisy._

ANDY: Sorry. I know it's not funny at all, actually. It's just –

DAISY: Nerves, I know.

ANDY: But you should have seen his face.

_They glance at each other and crack up all over again._

**SCENE 131**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_The curtains are drawn, and the light is low. Poirot is already in his dressing gown when there is a knock on the door of his room. He looks around expectantly._

POIROT: Hastings? Come in!

_The door opens, but it_ _'s not Hastings. It's Isobel Crawley, in hat and coat._

ISOBEL: I'm sorry to call so late, Mr Poirot, but I have a message for you from Captain Hastings.

POIROT: Come in, please, Madame Crawley. I admit I expected Hastings back long before this.

ISOBEL: He's just rung from Peterborough. The engine of his train broke down, and as it was the last one on the route, he's stuck there until tomorrow morning. He's checked into the station hotel. 

POIROT: Thank you, Madame Crawley. That's very inconvenient, I'm sure. But was it worth coming all the way here in the dark to tell me? Could you not have telephoned and saved yourself the trip?

ISOBEL: Oh, I don't mind. I was glad of the chance to see how you are. And – _(She closes the door.)_ – and there is something else. Captain Hastings was very agitated when he called. He said he was hurrying back to warn you. He seemed to think – _(She breaks off with a little embarrassed laugh.)_ I'm sorry, this sounds quite ridiculous, really, but he seemed to think that you could be in some kind of danger.

POIROT _(raising his eyebrows):_ Here? In this house?

ISOBEL: Yes. I have no idea what he meant, of course, but he was quite serious. Is this about something he found out in London?

POIROT: I assure you, I am as mystified as you are, Madame. But I promise to lock and bolt the door of my room tonight, if it will set my friend's mind and yours at rest.

ISOBEL: Good. I'll ring him back when I get home and let him know.

POIROT: Then would you please be so kind and also tell him to take the first train tomorrow morning and meet me at the railway station at Danby Wiske?

ISOBEL: Danby Wiske? That's quite a bit away from here. Has your investigation taken you so far north then?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ No. I just want to show my friend a beautiful view.


	13. Thursday, January 23rd 1925 / Morning

**THURSDAY, JANUARY 23 rd 1925**

****

**SCENE 132**

**INT. DANBY WISKE RAILWAY STATION. THE PUB. DAY**

_The next day before noon, Poirot and Hastings have met at the railway station at Danby Wiske and settled down in the small station pub, which is the best the little place can offer by way of shelter and hospitality. As it's still early, they're the only patrons. They sit at a table by a window overlooking the tracks, Hastings with a tankard of ale and Poirot with a glass of cider, which he is barely touching. Hastings has just reported what he has learned from Lord Gillingham. Poirot looks very content._

POIROT: And so you concluded that if Mr Bates had killed before, to right the injury that Green did to his wife, then he would now want to kill _me_ to stop me finding out?

HASTINGS: He, or her. As I understood it, the police are looking more closely at Mrs Bates at the moment than at her husband, what with the witnesses who saw her and heard her talk to Green in Piccadilly and all. They seem to assume that Bates' confession is bogus and was just meant to protect her.

POIROT: They have two witnesses, have they not?

HASTINGS: Yes, first a woman came forward who overheard a contention. And then later, a man identified Mrs Bates as the person who pushed Green into the road. But I tell you what, Poirot - witnesses or not, I feel that it's the man we should be worrying about. A convicted thief and murderer, going in and out of your room...

POIROT: An exonerated murderer, Hastings. Exonerated on both occasions, as you tell me, through irrefutable alibis. Would Lord Grantham have welcomed him back with open arms _twice_ if he'd had any doubts about Mr Bates' moral character?

HASTINGS: That's the point, though, isn't it? It looks like half the people in that house have a criminal record, or should have. I'm not sure how reliable Lord Grantham's judgment actually is.

_Poirot chuckles._

POIROT: If you mean that Lord Grantham has very little knowledge of what's going on in his own house at the moment, you're probably right.

_But Hastings doesn't share his friend's amusement._

HASTINGS: No, really - how many of them have we looked at now? First you thought there was something wrong with Branson, then you suspected Lady Edith, then we found out about Barrow's dubious visit to Thirsk, and now we're looking at Mr and Mrs Bates. And yet none of that has brought us any closer to the truth, has it?

POIROT _(pensively):_ Ah, yes. It is a sharp mind indeed that has devised this puzzle for us, Hastings. There is a magnificent guiding intelligence at work behind this whole mystery, very clever, very resourceful, and certainly rather ruthless, too. I confess myself impressed. Indeed, I take my hat off to her.

HASTINGS _(taken aback):_ You mean it's a woman?

_Poirot gives his friend a reproachful look._

POIROT: Of course it is a woman.

_There is a silence, broken only when a train going south puffs and whistles its way into the station, obscuring the dismal view from the window with a thick cloud of steam._

HASTINGS: Well, going back to Coyle - I still want to know why he took Green's name and turned up here in the area over two years after Green's death. I admit I thought at first that it was Philip Coyle who really killed Alex Green in Piccadilly and then let the Bateses take the blame. But if that was the case, why would he make contact with them now, and why would he go by his victim's name?

POIROT: I congratulate you, mon ami. You're asking all the right questions this time. Why indeed would Philip Coyle not only adopt the dead man's name, but also his physical appearance and his attitude towards women?

HASTINGS: Are you saying that Philip Coyle didn't just want an alias, but wanted to be _mistaken_ for Green? Whatever for?

POIROT _(with an enigmatic smile):_ The answer to that, my friend, lies within some small pieces of newspaper that are now in the possession of Dr Latimer at Birkby Manor.

HASTINGS: More old newspaper?

POIROT: Yes, this time found on and near the body of the unfortunate Edward Wilkinson, upon his death a few short miles down this very railway line, by the Wiske Bridge, on the night of January 6th. Several dozen pieces, cut from The Times of that day, all in the size of a ten pound note.

_Before Hastings can express his confusion at this new revelation, the landlord approaches their table._

LANDLORD: Would you gentlemen care to stay for lunch? We're about to put a splendid carp in the oven.

HASTINGS _(with an uncertain look at Poirot):_ Well, er, we -

POIROT _(to the landlord):_ We'd be very pleased to partake of your splendid carp, thank you. _(To Hastings, as the landlord moves away)_ We shouldn't have to tackle the next step of our mission hungry.

HASTINGS: I assume the next step is to go to the theatre in York and confirm that the Bateses were nowhere even near there on the night of January 6th?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ No, Hastings, no need for that. We will find the answer to that question at the Wiske Bridge, too.

**SCENE 133**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_The kitchen, where Mrs Patmore and her kitchen maids are busy clearing up after luncheon, currently also doubles as a temporary store room for several wooden crates filled with wine bottles. Carson, with his reading glasses on his nose, stands checking the crates against a list in his hand while the hall boys carry them in. Thomas appears in the doorway and immediately has to flatten himself against the wall in order not to get squashed by the next crate._

CARSON _(to Thomas):_ Ah, Mr Barrow. Our wine delivery is here a day earlier than expected. I could do with a hand in the cellar in a moment.

THOMAS: Of course, Mr Carson. _(To Mrs Patmore)_ I was just looking for Daisy.

MRS PATMORE: She's got the day off. She went to Mr Mason's farm after breakfast and won't be back till dinner.

THOMAS: That's news to me.

CARSON _(looking sternly at Mrs Patmore over the rim of his glasses):_ And it's news to me, too, Mrs Patmore.

MRS PATMORE _(brusquely):_ Well, as neither of _you_ will be doing twice your usual day's work because of it, let that be my concern and not yours.

THOMAS: Well, tell her I want to talk to her. And that I will, eventually.

_His tone is conversational, but the veiled threat doesn't escape Mrs Patmore. She huffs indignantly. The arrival of the hall boys with the last crates of wine cuts any further ugliness short. Carson waves his list in the general direction of the wine cellar._

CARSON: After you, Mr Barrow. _(To the hall boys)_ We'll have it all downstairs then, please. Start with the white, so it doesn't get too warm.

**SCENE 134**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE WINE CELLAR. AFTERNOON**

_In the dimly lit, cavern-like room, Carson and Thomas are busy emptying the wine crates and storing the bottles in their proper places on the long shelves, ticking them off on the wine merchant's delivery note._

THOMAS: By the way, Mr Carson, have you given any more thought to your missing hat?

CARSON _(frowning at the label of a bottle):_ Why would I? I've replaced it and that's that. Or are you telling me it's turned up after all?

THOMAS: No, I just thought, if Mr Poirot was so interested in pieces of clothing that have gone missing…

CARSON: … then I should add fuel to the fire of his misguided zeal by telling him about mine?

THOMAS: But don't you wonder what happened to it? Just in theory, couldn't Mr Bates have mistaken it for his own? Since he went out that night, too? Maybe he lost it on the way, or ended up damaging it or getting it so dirty that he felt he couldn't return it?

CARSON: Why on earth would Mr Bates lose or damage his hat going to the theatre in York? Are Mr Poirot's famous flights of fancy rubbing off on you _? (He holds a bottle out to Thomas by way of concluding the subject.)_ It looks as if we got only two dozen of this Sauvignon Blanc. I remember His Lordship wanted three.

THOMAS: I know. I did put three on the order form.

CARSON: Then why are there only two here? You must have made a mistake.

THOMAS: No, I didn't. _(He walks to where a heavy ledger lies open on the table by the gas lamp, carries it over and points at an entry.)_ Three. As discussed with His Lordship when we last went through the inventory. So either the delivery driver is a very thirsty man, or the mistake is at the shop's end.

_Carson looks through their records, too._

CARSON: Hmm.

THOMAS: I'll ring them and have them send the rest over tomorrow.

CARSON _(grudgingly conceding defeat):_ Yes, you'd better do that. But mind you - that's the only missing thing in this house that I want you to worry about right now.

THOMAS _(with glaring insincerity):_ That's very considerate of you, Mr Carson. I won't lose any sleep over the other one, and I hope you won't, either.

_Carson merely harrumphs._

**SCENE 135**

**EXT. WISKE RAILWAY BRIDGE. AFTERNOON**

_A few miles further north from the station at Danby Wiske, at the level crossing by the Wiske Bridge below Birkby Manor, Poirot and Hastings are talking to the local signalman. Their taxi is waiting in the background. The rail worker, a big man in cap and uniform with the moustache of a walrus, stands in front of his cabin, hands on his hips._

SIGNALMAN: Of course I remember that night, sir. Damned ugly business, begging your pardon.

POIROT: You were on duty here at the crossing then, too?

SIGNALMAN: That's right, sir. I'd just put up the red lanterns. The train was less than a mile off when I heard the poor devil crashing through the bushes. At first I thought it were just a deer. You always hope it's just a deer.

_Poirot and Hastings nod sympathetically. The signalman points northwards along the tracks._

SIGNALMAN: See where the line takes that little turn, where it comes off the bridge and skirts the hill? That's where he came tumbling out of the woods and down the slope.

POIROT: 'Tumbling'?

SIGNALMAN: Aye. See how steep it is? There was no more stopping by then, even if he'd changed his mind at the last moment. He came down head over heels, and then the train was right there. _(He squares his shoulders as if to shake off the memory.)_ I'll never forget it, how those weird papers of his blew into the air in the slipstream, like so many leaves in autumn, or like a flock o' birds taking flight.

HASTINGS: And what did you do then?

SIGNALMAN: Well, the driver threw on the brakes, of course, which they don't do for a deer, so there was that hope gone. I ran back to me cabin to put all the signals on the line to red and rang the stationmaster at Danby and the police. Then I took me light and went to see what I could do. But no one wins against a train going at seventy miles an hour, I knew that even before I saw the latest proof.

_There is an uncomfortable silence. Crows are cawing in the trees around them._

POIROT: Did you see anyone else around here at that time?

SIGNALMAN: No, not at the time of the crash. There were a family looking for their dog, but that must've been more than an hour before. They were long gone by then.

POIROT _(perking up his ears):_ What family was this?

SIGNALMAN: Three people going back into the woods, up the path here, to the ruined chapel _. (He points at the wooded slope that rises above them.)_ I asked them were they sure where they were going, in the dark and all, but they said yes, they knew the way, and they had a lantern. They said they'd been here earlier in the day, walking, and lost their dog, so they came back to look for it, or something.

_Poirot and Hastings exchange a look._

HASTINGS: Can you describe them?

SIGNALMAN: An older lady, maybe sixty, dressed all in black. A man a bit younger than that, tall and very broad in the shoulders, square as a box, in coat and bowler hat. And a young woman, slight, with fair hair, I think.

POIROT _(smiling triumphantly):_ And the older woman spoke with a Scottish accent, and the man walked with a limp and used a stick?

SIGNALMAN _(with a frown):_ Why, no, sir. The woman sounded a bit posh, if anything, but not Scottish at all. And the man walked just fine. No stick. But he did have a gun.

_He falls silent, confused by the effect of his words. Poirot looks as if the man had just emptied a bucket of cold water over his head._

SIGNALMAN: I can tell you that the young woman was driving, if that helps you any. They left their car on the other side of the crossing, but that caught me eye when they got out.

POIROT: And was their car still here when the accident occurred?

SIGNALMAN: I couldn't tell you that, sir. I had other things to worry about then.

POIROT: Of course.  
_He braces himself and turns to Hastings._

HASTINGS _(resigned):_ Don't tell me we've drawn another blank.

POIROT _(in a quiet, almost humble tone):_ No, mon ami. We have not. Quite the contrary. We have drawn a winning ticket, but the prize is not what I was expecting it to be _. (He turns back to the signalman.)_ May I use the telephone in your cabin for a moment?

SIGNALMAN: Erm - it's only for official use.

POIROT: I am about to call an Inspector at Scotland Yard in London, if that is official enough.

SIGNALMAN _(deeply impressed):_ Oh. Of course.

_He invites Poirot into his cabin with a gesture of his hand._

HASTINGS _(to Poirot):_ Are you going to ask Japp to check those alibis for us now?

POIROT: No. I intend to ask him, or his colleague Inspector Vyner, to be precise, for just one small piece of information from their file on the death of Alex Green.

HASTINGS: And that is?

POIROT: The name of the witness who identified Mrs Bates as the person who pushed him to his death in Piccadilly.

**SCENE 136**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. THE DOWER HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM.**

_Violet is at her writing table when the door opens and Spratt the butler shows Isobel in._

VIOLET _(looking up):_ Oh, Cousin Isobel! To what do I owe the pleasure?

_Isobel glances over her shoulder to check that Spratt has left and closed the door, then she speaks without preamble._

ISOBEL: Do you remember what you did on the evening of January 6th?

VIOLET: Dear me, of course not. Let me check my diary. _(She looks around the desk for the object in question.)_ Why do you ask?

ISOBEL: I may need an alibi.

_In the silence that follows, you could hear the proverbial pin drop. Violet just stares, for once lost for words._


	14. Thursday, January 23rd 1925 / Afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something went wrong with the posting dates when I last updated - Chapter 13, on January 10th. So before you read this one - Chapter 14 - please go back and make sure you haven’t skipped 13. It should show up properly for all of you now. Sorry for the confusion!

**SCENE 137**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE GREAT HALL. AFTERNOON**

_Violet, who has just been relieved of her coat by Molesley at the door, comes marching into the hall as if_ _marching into battle, stabbing at the Axminster with her walking stick as if it has personally offended her. Cora, who is on the telephone, looks up in surprise at the unexpected appearance of her mother-in-law in, makes apologetic gestures and mouths 'in a moment'. Violet nods. Halfway into the hall, she meets Mary, who has come out of the library._

MARY: Granny! What brings you here again?

_Violet talks to her in an undertone of controlled anger, low but fierce._

VIOLET: Your folly brings me here. Your naïve and inexcusable folly that relied on playing dead and waiting for the storm to pass, while the noose was tightening all this time!

MARY _(aghast):_ What? What are you talking about?

VIOLET: You know exactly what I'm talking about.

MARY _(lowering her voice):_ So you know?

VIOLET: Yes, I do, and about time, too. It's time someone took this in hand who knows how to handle such things! Attack is the best form of defence, Mary! When will you learn that?

MARY _(desperately):_ I – it wasn't my – what were we supposed to do?

VIOLET: Well, I can tell you what we will do now. Even if you can't argue with the message, which I understand you can't, you can still discredit the messenger. Turn the tables on him! Expose his duplicity and his shameful abuse of our hospitality! Let him be cast into the outer darkness in disgrace and infamy! Then no one will listen to him any more, no matter whether what he says is true or not.

MARY: Is that what you've come to do?

VIOLET: No. It's what _you_ will do. Summon your mother, as soon as she's free, and get her on our side.

MARY: And you?

VIOLET: I will neutralise the subversive element among our own ranks before he stabs us in the back. Send him up to me right now. I'll be in the library.

_She brushes past her granddaughter, heading for the room in question. Mary closes her eyes, collecting herself. By the time Molesley returns to the hall from putting Violet's coat away, she has regained her composure._

**SCENE 138**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. DOWNSTAIRS CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON**

_Molesley has come downstairs and found Thomas in the passage. In the background, Andy is at the open back door, talking to a man in uniform. Thomas looks extremely uncomfortable at the request that Molesley has just relayed to him._

THOMAS: But what does she want?

MOLESLEY: I'll be hanged if I know, but I wouldn't let her wait if I were you.

_He moves on into the kitchen. Thomas stands there for a moment, then takes a deep breath and walks up the stairs. Shortly afterwards, Andy returns from the back door with an envelope in his hand and knocks on the open door of Carson's pantry. Carson's voice can be heard answering._

CARSON _(V. O.):_ What is it, Andrew?

ANDY: Telegram for Mr Poirot.

**SCENE 139**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE LIBRARY. AFTERNOON**

_Violet has installed herself on the settee facing the door, sitting very upright, her hands folded over the knob of her walking stick. The door opens. Thomas enters and stands just inside the door, a perfect image of respectful deference._

THOMAS: You wanted to see me, my lady?

VIOLET: I needed to see you would be closer to the truth. Shut the door and come over here. I don't want to shout.

 _Thomas closes the door and approaches her cautiously. He_ _'_ _s trying to gage how close is close enough, but she_ _'_ _s not being helpful. When he_ _'_ _s only a few steps away from her, Violet points at the settee opposite hers with her stick._

VIOLET: Sit. I don't want to crane my neck, either.

THOMAS: I really couldn't.

VIOLET: Yes, you can, and you will. 

_They briefly engage in a silent battle of wills, but Thomas loses. Resigning himself to his fate, he sits down stiffly on the very edge of the other settee with his hands on his knees._

THOMAS: If this is about yesterday -

VIOLET: No, I'm not interested in your lame excuses for that atrocious performance. I wanted to hear how your patient is.

_Her tone is not conversational. She probably couldn_ _'t fool him anyway, but she's not even trying. Thomas deliberates his answer for a moment, then opts for a carefully veiled version of the truth._

THOMAS: He's much better than it looked at first.

VIOLET: Yes, I thought so. We've been witnessing quite a miracle healing. Am I right to assume that you have omitted to inform Lord and Lady Grantham of this remarkable discovery?

THOMAS: I felt that it wasn't my place, once the Doctor -

VIOLET _(drily):_ Ah, yes, shifting the blame. Always worth a try.

_There is an awkward silence. Finally, Violet speaks again._

VIOLET: You have a curious penchant for biting the hand that feeds you, Barrow. Are you planning to get away with it forever?

THOMAS: I don't know what you mean, my lady.

VIOLET: No? Well, then let me tell you a story.

_This does come as a surprise._

THOMAS: A story? 

VIOLET: Yes. The story of the murder that took place at Downton Abbey in 1788.

THOMAS: So that was real?

VIOLET: Very real, I assure you. I'm not in the habit of inventing dead bodies for the purpose of polite conversation. In 1788, the second Earl, who was still a very young man, invited a friend to stay at this house - a grand man of much nobler blood than the Crawleys. But in the middle of the night, the Earl found him in bed with his younger sister. So the Earl took a pistol, shot the man in the face and threw him down the stairs.

THOMAS: And ruined a brilliant marriage prospect in the process?

VIOLET: Your levity is uncalled for, Barrow. The girl was only fourteen, and the guest was not in the young lady's room at her invitation. On the contrary, it was her desperate pleas and cries of protest that made the Earl come running in the first place. Her surviving letters to him attest to a lifetime of gratitude and affection for her valiant avenger.

_There is a silence while this sinks in._

VIOLET: According to one version of the story, the Earl offered the man the chance to settle the affair on the field of honour at dawn the next day, and only killed him when his guest scorned and ridiculed him in response. According to the other version, the Earl was so beside himself with rage that he never even stopped to think. I say it does not matter. Either way, he was justified.

THOMAS: But they hushed it up?

VIOLET: Of course. The guest's family were told that he had had to get up during the night and took a tumble down the stairs in the dark that tragically broke his neck. Everyone in the house knew the truth, naturally, but both the family and the servants closed ranks to protect the Earl's good name and the young lady's honour, and in the best interest of everyone involved, no one ever so much as breathed a word of it to the world outside.

 _There is another pause, longer this time. Thomas_ _thoughts seem to be racing._

THOMAS: Why are you telling me this?

VIOLET: As a fable, Barrow. Some things are best left alone.

_She fixes the gaze of her pale eyes on him until he looks away. A shadow of a smile passes over her face then._

VIOLET: And now get up, before someone catches you making yourself too comfortable.

_The lock clicks, but by the time the door opens to admit Molesley, Cora and Mary into the room, Thomas is already back on his feet and at a proper distance from where Violet is sitting. Molesley carries in the tea for the three ladies, which he places on the side table._

THOMAS _(to Violet):_ Anything else, my lady?

VIOLET: No, thank you, Barrow. You may go.

_Their innocent tone may or may not deceive Cora, but it certainly doesn_ _'_ _t deceive Mary, whose eyes go back and forth between them rapidly._

CORA _(to Violet):_ Do you want any tea, Mama?

VIOLET _(with a chuckle):_ Huh! Not if Barrow wants me to drink it out of the saucer again.

_Thomas forces a smile, then sketches a bow and leaves the room together with Molesley. While Cora helps herself to tea from the side table, Mary sits down next to her grandmother._

MARY _(in a whisper):_ Neutralised?

VIOLET _(likewise):_ With any luck. I hope you haven't left it too late.

**SCENE 140**

**INT. THE GREAT HALL. AFTERNOON**

_Poirot and Hastings return from their excursion to Danby Wiske and the Wiske Bridge. Poirot has dropped all pretence of being an invalid at this point, walking unaided except for his usual silver-handled stick. Molesley, back from serving the ladies tea in the library, has taken their coats. Carson approaches them when they move on from the vestibule into the hall itself, carrying the telegram for Poirot on a salver._

CARSON: Welcome back, Captain Hastings. _(Hastings nods in acknowledgment.)_ Mr Poirot, this came for you only a moment ago.

POIROT _(reaching for the telegram):_ Ah, thank you. _(To Hastings)_ Our friend Japp has outdone himself.

_He tears open the envelope and looks over the telegram, which appears to be fairly long. Hastings can barely contain his curiosity._

HASTINGS: Well, what does he say?

_Poirot hands him the telegram and sighs._

POIROT: It is as I feared, Hastings. I have committed a grave error. The fatal error in any criminal investigation.

_He smiles a little wistfully at his friend_ _'_ _s stunned expression._

HASTINGS: What on earth do you mean?

POIROT: I have trusted my client.

**SCENE 141**

**INT. THE LIBRARY. AFTERNOON**

_Cora, returning from the side table with her tea cup, sits down opposite Mary and Violet._

MARY: Who were you on the phone with all this time, Mama?

CORA: Yes, sorry, that's what I just wanted to tell you. I had the strangest call from Tony Gillingham.

MARY _(alarmed):_ What? Why?

CORA: He said he had a visitor yesterday that we should know about.

MARY: What visitor?

CORA _(with a wry smile):_ A Captain Hastings, acting on behalf of the famous detective, Hercule Poirot.

_Mary exchanges a quick look with Violet._

MARY: That doesn't make any sense.

CORA: I don't understand it either, but Tony said Captain Hastings was extremely interested in that ghastly story of his dead valet, and Bates' and Anna's supposed role in it.

MARY _(exasperated):_ Which Tony told him all about?

CORA: Apparently, yes.

VIOLET: Well, Tony Gillingham has many qualities, but he was not born to be a conspirator.

CORA _(frowning):_ What do you mean, conspirator?

MARY _(quickly):_ Granny means he should have talked to us first. Since it's such a private matter.

CORA: I agree, and I think he feels guilty about that now. That's why he called. Said he couldn't sleep all night. _(She sighs.)_ I don't know what to do, to be honest. I'm starting to feel that we've made a mistake letting Mr Poirot into the house.

VIOLET: Ha! I'm glad you see that now.

CORA _(surprised):_ What?

_Mary and Violet exchange a glance, wordlessly agreeing that the time has come to blow Poiro_ _t'_ _s cover._

MARY _(to Cora):_ Well, Mama, as a matter of fact -

_But she is interrupted by the door opening again._

MOLESLEY: Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings.

**SCENE 142**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. AFTERNOON**

_Mrs Patmore and the kitchen maids are at the early preparations for dinner. Daisy is still away at Mr Mason's. Baxter and Anna are there taking a break, tea cups in their hands. Mrs Hughes has just joined them when Molesley comes racing_ _down the stairs, giddy with excitement. He starts calling to them even before he_ _'_ _s in the room. Everyone looks up in surprise._

MOLESLEY: It's over! He's leaving! He's going! We're shot of him! _(He comes to a halt in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear.)_ He's just told Her Ladyship. It's true! It's over!

 _After a moment of stunned_ _silence, Mrs Patmore raises her hands to_ _the heavens._

MRS PATMORE: Oh, hallelujah!

BAXTER: I don't believe it! _(She beams at Molesley, then turns to Anna and takes her arm.)_ Anna! Tell Mr Bates!

_But there is no need – Bates has already arrived from the servants' hall, together with Andy and a hall boy, to see what the commotion is all about._

BATES: What's going on?

MRS PATMORE _(triumphantly):_ Mr Poirot is slinging his hook!

ANNA _(to Molesley):_ Are you sure? Doesn't that mean - ?

MOLESLEY: Not to worry, Anna. He's dropping the case. He's giving up. I heard him say so myself.

_A fresh wave of amazement washes over the kitchen._

MRS HUGHES: How did that happen?

MOLESLEY _(with a laugh):_ I don't know! But Her Ladyship asked if his work here was done, and he said yes, actually, there was no work here for him at all. He'd made a mistake, thinking that there was a crime to investigate here, he said, and he would now correct that mistake by going back home to London tomorrow!

_Andy punches the air and whoops. Bates puts his arm around Anna's shoulders and pulls her close._

MRS HUGHES _(to Molesley, incredulously):_ 'No crime to investigate'?

MOLESLEY _(happily):_ His own words!

MRS HUGHES: Oh. _(She shakes her head. To Mrs Patmore)_ Pinch me, I'm dreaming.

MRS PATMORE: I know! _(She pulls Mrs Hughes into her arms.)_ That's a load off your mind, isn't it?

_Mrs Hughes nods weakly._

BAXTER: And Daisy will be so relieved when she hears, too.

MOLESLEY: We're all relieved! No more watching our backs at every step. _(He looks around.)_ Where is he, anyway?

MRS PATMORE _(gleefully):_ Helping Mr Poirot pack, I should hope!

 _Everyone laughs. Carson comes downstairs, eyebrows raised_ _at the celebratory atmosphere._

CARSON: Mrs Patmore, I assume you know that there will be four extra guests at dinner tonight?

MOLESLEY _(a little guiltily):_ Oh yes, I should have mentioned that.

MRS PATMORE _(alarmed):_ Four extra guests?

CARSON: Yes, Her Ladyship is asking us to see Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings off with an especially fine display of Downton hospitality, and the Dowager Countess and Mrs Crawley have been invited to the farewell feast as well.

MRS PATMORE _(aghast):_ A feast for nine at less than three hours' notice?

CARSON: Well, you'll work something out, won't you? You always do.

ANDY _(to Mrs Patmore):_ Maybe Mr Poirot can give you a hand, now he's got nothing else on any more.

_The company in the kitchen dissolves into laughter again._

CARSON _(turning to the Bateses):_ Oh, and Anna, Lady Mary is asking you to see her in her room.

ANNA _(surprised):_ Now?

CARSON: Yes, now.

_Anna exchanges a look with her husband, but he doesn't seem worried._

BATES _(with a smile):_ Maybe she wants to put on some especially fine display, too. Better run.

_Anna nods and skips off upstairs, a new spring in her step._

MRS PATMORE _(looking around the kitchen in comical despair):_ Daisy, where are you when I need you?

**SCENE 143**

**INT. MARY** **'s BEDROOM. AFTERNOON**

_Mary stands looking out of the window when there is a knock on the door and Anna enters. Anna is smiling. Mary is not._

MARY: Ah, Anna, thank you for coming. I suppose you've heard the happy news?

ANNA: I have, my lady. It's such a relief.

MARY: Well, I just wanted to tell you, I'll be sitting up over the books with His Lordship and Tom Branson until all hours again after dinner. So don't wait up for me.

ANNA: Oh?

MARY: Get yourself back home as soon as I'm dressed. I will ask His Lordship to tell Bates the same. And take your time to report back tomorrow. I doubt I'll be awake before Mr Poirot leaves.

_Anna_ _'_ _s smile fades, and she frowns._

MARY: I mean it. Or better still, let's just lay out what I need, and then you can get away right now. Ask Mrs Patmore for some dinner for you to take home, or eat at the pub. Just stay away from the house tonight.

ANNA: But I thought -

MARY: Please, Anna, just do it. Just to be safe.

ANNA: Safe from what, my lady?

_Her voice has started trembling._

MARY: I can't pin it down. I just have a feeling that this is all too good to be true. Better safe than sorry, right? We can laugh about it tomorrow, when it's turned out that it was all just in my head.

ANNA: I hope we will, my lady. I hope we will. Thank you.

**SCENE 144**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN COURTYARD. EVENING**

_The last light of the winter day has faded in the western sky when Daisy, in a thick coat and woollen hat, finally returns to the house from her day out at her father-in-law_ _'_ _s farm. She walks fast to keep warm, but halfway to the back door, she suddenly stops dead. There is a movement in the shadows off to her right, and Thomas steps out into the faint light from the lamp above the door, pinched with cold and clinging to a cigarette. Daisy gives a startled gasp at the sight of him. They stare at each other in silence for a moment. Then Thomas jerks his head at the back door._

THOMAS: Go on in. Don't mind me.

_Daisy, sensing a trick or a trap, actually takes a step backwards. Thomas snorts derisively and inhales another lungful of smoke._

THOMAS: Get inside, silly. Mrs Patmore will throw a fit if she finds you dilly-dallying out here.

DAISY: She said I could -

THOMAS: Yes, I know why you were out all day. Don't let me spoil your clever plan at the last minute.

 _He takes another deep drag. The smoke curls around them in the cold air._ _Daisy_ _'_ _s eyes narrow._

DAISY: So... does that mean you've changed your mind now, too? About helping Mr Poirot?

THOMAS: No, but Mr Poirot has changed his, and I've managed to make myself obsolete. _(Bitterly)_ My greatest talent, these days. And now he's leaving.

DAISY _(incredulously):_ What?

THOMAS: Yes. _(He nods towards the house again.)_ And Mrs Patmore's slaving away in there, trying to see him off in splendour without any help from you.

_Daisy_ _'_ _s eyes widen, but then her expression changes to anger._

DAISY: Well, if she is, it's your fault!

THOMAS _(with a shrug):_ Can't argue with that.

 _Daisy pushes past him in a huff, but at the door, she turns back. He hasn_ _'t moved_ _, but she just glares at him until he sighs, grinds the stub of his cigarette under his foot and joins her._

**SCENE 145**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE BLUE ROOM. NIGHT**

_Hercule Poirot, dressed in black tie for his farewell dinner, is moving about his guest bedroom, packing his things. An open suitcase is on the foot of the bed, and he's folding his dressing gown into it very accurately when there is a knock on the door and Hastings enters, also in black tie. Poirot smiles at him._

POIROT: There you are, mon ami. Is it time? I'm nearly done here.

HASTINGS _(looking around the room):_ No one's come to give you a hand this time?

POIROT: Oh, I dare say they're all busy with the dinner preparations. _(He picks up a small book from the sideboard and hands it to Hastings.)_ But I still need to return this. Mr Bates found it in Lord Grantham's library for me.

HASTINGS _(frowning down at the book):_ Twelfth Night by Shakespeare? Isn't that the one where the girl is shipwrecked on an island, dresses up as a page and gets into all sorts of trouble in her boy's disguise?

POIROT _(in an approving tone):_ That's exactly the one, Hastings. I had hoped to give it to Mr Barrow, but it seems he's avoiding me. So I'm afraid he'll have to brave the storm without due warning.

HASTINGS _(with a chuckle):_ I thought you still had a card or two up your sleeve. I've never known you to just give up on a case, let alone so easily.

POIROT _(smiling back):_ Well, let's hope the good people at Downton Abbey don't know me as well as you do.

**SCENE 146**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_The place is loud and hot and filled with steam and fumes and the clattering of pots and pans as Mrs Patmore and her kitchen team get dinner ready in a tearing hurry. Mrs Hughes enters._

MRS HUGHES _(to Mrs Patmore):_ Is everything under control? Do you need another hand?

MRS PATMORE _(wiping her brow):_ No, thank you, I've got all the hands I need now.

_She looks pointedly across to the other end of the long central table. Mrs Hughes follows her gaze and sees, to her astonishment, Daisy working there side by side with Thomas. The latter has exchanged his tailcoat for an apron and sleeve covers and is busy slicing sticks of leek at Daisy's direction. Mrs Hughes raises both eyebrows at Mrs Patmore._

MRS HUGHES: What on earth is he doing there?

MRS PATMORE _(drily):_ Penance. I think he's finally remembered he's one of us.

MRS HUGHES: What's brought that on?  
MRS PATMORE: I don't know, but the Lord moves in mysterious ways, and so does our old lady when she wants to.

_They exchange a look._

MRS HUGHES: Well, I'm just glad it's our own problem again now and no one else's. _(She glances over at Daisy and Thomas again, then smiles with almost maternal fondness.)_ Don't let Mr Carson catch him. It would be such a pity.

_The two women chuckle._


	15. Thursday, January 23rd 1925 / Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for - but it is a whale. I apologise for its length, and can only hope that Poirot will just sweep you along and you'll be through before you know it. Enjoy! And do let me know what you think, what you saw coming or not, and what you still want to see.

**SCENE 147**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. DINING ROOM. NIGHT**

_The farewell dinner for Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings is in full swing. Silverware and cut glass sparkle and glitter all along the table, and animated chatter fills the air. In stark contrast to the first time Poirot and Hastings were at dinner here, the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly right from the start, and nobody has trouble finding topics to talk about. While the family and their guests eat and converse, the servants – the full complement again, Carson, Thomas (promoted back up from scullion to under-butler), Molesley and Andy – are working together like a well-oiled machine to keep the steady stream of food and drink going. Platters, bowls and tureens come and go, plates are brought in and removed, wine is poured and poured again with model zeal and accuracy._

_The ladies of the house seem to have decided to bury the hatchet and not expose Poirot's dishonest manoeuvering after all, now that he's leaving voluntarily. Poirot, in his turn, is the very image of charm, good manners and graceful company. He_ _'_ _s currently engaged in a spirited but civilised debate with Violet and Isobel about the respective merits of impressionist versus expressionist art, and the best museums of London and Paris to enjoy either. At the other end of the table, Hastings is getting on like a house on fire with Edith, deeply interested – or at least pretending to be deeply interested – in journalism and the publishing trade, with Tom contributing anecdotes from his short career as a journalist in Dublin that don't even make Hastings flinch any more. Cora and Robert smile at each other across the table, happy to see peace and harmony restored to their home. Only Mary seems curiously quiet. The one thing nobody mentions at all is Poirot's search for the missing Philip Coyle._

_When the feast has almost run its course and they've nearly finished their dessert, the front doorbell suddenly rings. All conversation ceases immediately. Cora and Robert exchange a surprised look._

CORA: Who could that be, at this hour?

ROBERT: Well, we'll soon know.

_He nods to Carson, who wordlessly hands over the charge of the wine to Thomas and then goes to open the door. He's back only a minute or two later._

CARSON _(to Robert):_ It is Dr Clarkson and his brother Colonel Clarkson, my lord. They don't want to come in as they don't want to disrupt your dinner, but they're asking to speak to Mr Poirot and Captain Hastings for a moment. It sounds urgent.

_After a moment of amazed silence, Poirot gets to his feet. Hastings follows his example._

POIROT _(to Cora):_ With your permission, Lady Grantham ...?

CORA: Well, yes, of course. I hope it's good news.

_Carson holds the door open for Poirot and Hastings as they leave the room. Hastings mutters to Poirot under his breath._

HASTINGS: What's going on?

POIROT: I am not clairvoyant, mon ami, or not as much as you like to think. But there is a good chance that this is the final piece of the puzzle.

_He glances up at his friend, eyes sparkling again. They walk on into the hall, where the brothers Clarkson stand waiting for them with their hats in their hands and their coats still on, too excited about the news they bring to even sit down._

**SCENE 148**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE KITCHEN. NIGHT**

_Mrs Patmore stands in the middle of her little realm with her hands on her broad hips, looking exhausted but content as Daisy carries the used pots and pans into the scullery. There is water boiling for the upstairs after-dinner coffee, but everything else is done. The kitchen looks like a battlefield, but they have triumphed._

MRS PATMORE _(calling after her assistant):_ Leave those for Gertie tomorrow, will you?

DAISY: I'll just put them to soak.

MRS PATMORE: And then we'll put our feet up for a week.

DAISY _(calling from the scullery, V. O.):_ We wish!

_There is a clatter of cookware and a rush of tap water, then Daisy is back._

DAISY: Can you really believe it's over?

MRS PATMORE: I hope to God it is.

BAXTER: Amen to that. _(She has come into the kitchen, carrying her sewing basket. She puts it out of the way on Mrs Patmore's little desk.)_ Can I lend a hand and set the table in the servants' hall?

MRS PATMORE: Bless you. Yes, please.

_All three of them look up at the sound of a single pair of footsteps coming quickly downstairs. It's Carson, looking deeply disquieted._

CARSON: Downstairs dinner is postponed. Her Ladyship wants everyone in the library right now.

MRS PATMORE _(amazed):_ 'Everyone'?

CARSON: Everyone. The hall boys can go to bed, but everyone else is to come up immediately.

_Mrs Patmore and Baxter exchange a worried look._

DAISY: What's happened?

CARSON: Apparently Mr Poirot wants to make some kind of announcement.

BAXTER: The Bateses have gone home early. Should we go and fetch them?

CARSON: Er, no, leave them be. Mr Poirot said 'everyone who's still here'.

MRS PATMORE: Who was it at the door just now?

CARSON: Dr Clarkson and his brother. They brought some kind of message.

MRS PATMORE: What message?

CARSON _(impatiently):_ Mrs Patmore, if I had a shilling for each unanswered question these days, I would be a rich man. Now please get a move on. For all I know, it's just one of those new fashions of 'thanking the staff for their efforts', or whatever else people who don't know how to behave in a house like this feel the need to do.

_He moves away down the passage to knock on the door of Mrs Hughes' sitting room._

**SCENE 149**

**INT. DOWNTON ABBEY. THE LIBRARY. NIGHT**

_As requested by Poirot, the nine members of the dinner party have moved from the dining room to the library, where they are joined by the servants. Molesley, Mrs Patmore and Daisy, the latter two even still in their caps and aprons, carry in the coffee trays for the family and their guests. Carson and Thomas, aided by Tom Branson and Hastings, bring in additional chairs for everyone to sit on. Andy pokes the fire in the grate back into life. There is quite of bit of whispering and murmuring going on among the servants, not all of it strictly necessary. Even Carson mutters to Thomas as they carry an armchair for Violet over to the red settees._

CARSON: I have a feeling that I'm the only one who doesn't know what's going on, and I don't like it.

THOMAS _(in the same quiet undertone):_ I think you're about to find out what happened to your hat.

 _Carson sees Violet installed in the armchair._ _The family take their places on the red settees, with Edith, Cora and Robert sharing one and Mary and Isobel the other. Wooden chairs are placed to complete a semi-circle around the fireplace, providing seats for Tom Branson next to Violet, then Hastings, Carson, Mrs Hughes, Baxter, Daisy and Mrs Patmore. Thomas, Molesley and Andy take up their stations by the side table, ready to serve the coffee that has been placed there. Robert is one of the few people in the room who don't look tense or even nervous. He appears amused rather than worried by the atmosphere of mystery that Poirot's unorthodox request has created. Cora seems curious in a more guarded way. Violet_ _'s face is unreadable. Edith looks as if she'd rather be anywhere else than here._ _Poirot himself, standing with his back to the fireplace to be clearly seen and heard by everyone in the room, is overseeing the arrangements with the air of an impresario who can't wait to dazzle his audience with a brilliant performance. Tom Branson leans across to whisper to Hastings._

TOM: Does he always do this?

HASTINGS _(with a faint smile):_ I'm afraid this is his favourite part.

_Tom catches Mary's eye. Mary's jaw tightens. When everyone has settled down in this extraordinarily democratic array and the murmuring has subsided, Poirot puts his hands together in front of him and starts to speak, turning first towards his hosts._

POIROT: Lady Grantham – Lord Grantham – let me thank you for giving me the opportunity to address your family and your assembled household in this unusual manner. But what I am about to say concerns everyone now present in this room. So I feel very strongly that everyone in this room has the right to hear it.

_Cora inclines her head in agreement, looking intrigued._

POIROT: And I would also like to acknowledge how much I am in everyone's debt. You all – _(He looks around at his audience.)_ – have patiently tolerated my uninvited presence in your home for the past several days, even though – as I am well aware – it has created tension, unease and discord. For that, I apologise unreservedly.

 _Robert opens his mouth as if to respond with a polite commonplace, but a look around at the others_ ' _faces makes him realise just how true Poirot's words are. He shuts his mouth again quickly._

POIROT: As I told my kind hostess this afternoon, my stay here is at an end. I will take my leave as soon as I have had my say. But it is a habit of mine – or as my friend Hastings would call it, a quirk of mine – that at the conclusion of an investigation, I present a summary of its results. So that is what I will now do. As you know, I came to the village of Downton to investigate the disappearance of a man named Philip Coyle, at the instigation of his old mother, who is consumed with uncertainty and grief at his loss. So it is only right that I should tell you now that I have found him.

_A frisson goes around the room. Robert looks around as if he expects Philip Coyle to pop up from behind a piece of furniture, but Cora frowns at Poirot's grave tone._

CORA: Do you mean he's dead?

POIROT: Yes. Dead and buried in the graveyard of your very own village.

_There is a collective intake of breath from his audience._

ROBERT _(puzzled):_ But then how is it possible that no one here knew about him?

POIROT _(with a smile):_ I may have to advise you to rephrase that question, Lord Grantham. If you mean, how is it possible that neither the police nor the coroner nor the vicar nor anyone else in authority in the village could point me in the right direction – well, that is what I am about to divulge to you. I came here, at the end of last week, with, as they say, not much to go on. I was equipped with a few bare facts about the life of Philip Coyle, such as his appearance and his most recent place of employment, which was, as you may remember, as valet to a gentleman residing in Egypt. I also knew the time and the place where he was last known to be, which was in Thirsk on January 6th. Apart from that, I had nothing to aid my investigation except for my curiosity, which – as you can unfortunately attest now – is insatiable, and except for the little grey cells that have often served me so well in my profession.

_He touches his forehead with his hand and smiles._

POIROT: By pure chance, on my very first night in Downton, I was made aware of another person who had gone missing in this area lately. This was one Edward Wilkinson, a patient from the asylum at Birkby Manor, a little to the north of here, who fell – or jumped – in front of the night train to London at the Wiske Bridge on the very same day that Mr Coyle disappeared, too.

ROBERT: I remember that. Didn't Mr Travis make a terrible fuss about the poor devil's burial?

POIROT: Just so. Naturally, I was intrigued. It was a possibility, if a remote one, that Philip Coyle had developed some kind of mental illness while he stayed here, had been admitted to an asylum and then had either deliberately taken his life or been driven in front of the train by some overpowering delusion. So I went to Birkby, but only to learn that their lost patient had been well known there for years and could obviously not be the man I was looking for. But I also learned something else there.

_Mrs Hughes shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Carson, next to her, gives her a concerned look._

POIROT: I learned that the level crossing by the Wiske Bridge is the starting point of a popular walk in the area that leads up the hill to the ruin of a Cistercian chapel. Armed with this knowledge, I returned to Downton, where meanwhile, my friend and Hastings and I had removed to Crawley House at Madame Crawley's kind invitation.

_He inclines his head to Isobel, who returns the gesture gracefully. Mrs Hughes and Carson exchange another look, he tentatively relieved again, she not so much._

POIROT: By that time, my presence in the village was known in this house, and Hastings and I received Lady Grantham's dinner invitation. And it was during this dinner, on Sunday night, that I also received the first vague clues concerning the true fate of Philip Coyle.

MOLESLEY _(resigned):_ Which was me being an idiot.

_Everyone's heads turn to look at him in surprise. He gasps, realising too late that he's spoken out of turn. He mumbles an apology, but Poirot smiles._

POIROT: No, Mr Molesley. Your struggle with the unwieldy gravy boat that night was not a vague clue. It was a glaring signpost, by comparison.

_Molesley looks crestfallen. Baxter, who sits in front of him, turns in her seat to give him a sympathetic look._

POIROT: But it is not the obvious that interests Hercule Poirot. It is the small, roundabout hints that he delights in, the ambiguous and the obscure.

CORA: So what was it that got you hooked?

POIROT: Three things, Lady Grantham. Your lost gloves. The newspaper in Lord Grantham's shoes. And Mr Branson's mislaid gun. Three of the four objects that this whole mystery hinges on, handed to me on a silver platter on my very first night as a guest in this house.

_Cora and Robert exchange a startled – and rather guilty - look._

POIROT: The fourth object, as I may now reveal, was presented to me the next morning, when Mr Carson reported to me the recent loss of yet another piece of attire - namely, his bowler hat.

_Carson spreads his hands and looks down._

POIROT: No, please do not regret your confidence in me, Mr Carson. You may yet be glad of it.

ROBERT _(to Poirot):_ But we know what happened with those things. You said yourself –

POIROT: Yes, Lord Grantham. As soon as these little mysteries appeared, they were each instantly followed by a very plausible explanation. So plausible indeed that anyone except Hercule Poirot would probably have taken them at face value and thus dismissed them from his mind.

_Cora sits bolt upright at this._

CORA: Are you saying that we lied to you?

POIROT _(sententiously):_ Not every lie is malicious, Lady Grantham, and not every liar is motivated by evil. I would ask you to reserve judgment, as I did.

_Cora sinks back down into her seat._

POIROT: What I did next is something I am not proud of, and I renew my request for your forgiveness at this point. Through dishonesty and deception, and taking shameless advantage of the unexpected absence of Dr Clarkson, I artificially prolonged my stay in your house.

ROBERT _(flabbergasted):_ What?

VIOLET _(drily):_ Well, I knew that the moment I saw him hobbling out of the dining room under his own steam.

POIROT: And Madame Crawley here knew it when she discovered that I had not used the salve that Dr Clarkson prescribed for my supposed pain. And Mr Barrow knew it halfway through the first night, when he watched so conscientiously over my far too deep and far too restful sleep.

_This revelation shocks no one any more, except Robert and Carson. The latter glares at his under-butler and opens his mouth, presumably to shower him with reproaches. But Poirot holds up his hand and turns to Cora again._

POIROT: Lady Grantham, please believe me when I say that if I had I seen any other way, I would never have resorted to such fraudulence.

_Cora exchanges a look with Violet and Mary, then sighs._

CORA: Well, as it's too late now to change anything, we'll let it stand.

POIROT: Thank you. I know I have put myself greatly in the wrong there. I shall try and make amends as best I can. Well, my stay in this house, as intended, provided me with excellent opportunities to talk to many of you about these various little mysteries, and by the end of Monday, I and my invaluable friend Hastings had established several important facts. One was that a man from London had indeed gone missing from the best hotel in Thirsk on the night of January 6th. Another was that whatever mysterious developments had taken place in this house lately, they all centred on January 6th as well. And the third was that there were at least two people here in the house who knew a lot more about the events of January 6th than they were letting on.

CORA: And they were …?

POIROT: Lady Edith and Mr Branson.

_There is a silence. Mary is looking murder at her sister. Edith lowers her eyes, but then braces herself._

EDITH _(to Poirot):_ I know what gave me away. Can we not talk about it, please?

POIROT _(urbanely):_ I did not intend to, Lady Edith.

TOM: What gave _me_ away?

POIROT: The fact that your zeal in assisting Captain Hastings in his investigation failed the very moment you stood outside Philip Coyle's hotel in Thirsk.

MARY _(to Tom, irritated):_ That's why I asked you not to try and be clever!

ROBERT _(indignantly):_ Excuse me! Can someone please explain to me why my children are at each other's throats about the death of some random stranger that nobody in this house even knew?

 _Cora puts a hand on her husband_ _'s arm._

CORA: I think Mr Poirot's trying to do just that, Robert. _(To Poirot)_ Please go on. So the man who stayed at that hotel was your Mr Coyle?

POIROT: Yes, indeed. And I can now retrace the steps he took that night. According to the hotel manager, he had arrived from London and checked in on January 2nd. Around six o' clock in the evening of the 6th, a message came for him. I don't know how exactly it was worded, but it was what he had been waiting for. He triumphantly wrote to his mother in London then, informing her that his secret business was about to bear fruit. And then after dinner, he went out according to the instructions he had received. He took the train from Thirsk to Danby Wiske, and from there, the bus to the level crossing by the Wiske Bridge. Unnoticed in the dark by the signalman, he ascended the path to the ruined chapel, where he met three people. There was a confrontation, and as a result, shortly after eleven o'clock that night, Philip Coyle was dead on the railway tracks at the foot of the hill.

_Cora shudders._

ROBERT _(frowning):_ I thought that was the loony.

POIROT: No, it was not. But the nature of the victim's injuries rendered any positive identification impossible, and by pure chance, the two men were somewhat alike in age and stature. So no one, neither the police nor the coroner, nor even the asylum's director himself, doubted that the man who died that night was the mental patient, fleeing from some imagined horrors that haunted him. But they were all mistaken. It was Philip Coyle. 

VIOLET: But then where is the mad vicar?

POIROT: A mere half an hour ago, Lady Grantham, I did not know that with any certainty yet. But I was already sure that he must have perished somewhere in the wilderness, probably even on the first night after he left the safety of Birkby Manor. He could not have survived much longer than that with no proper shelter from the elements. I consulted with the Downton school headmaster, who is famous for his local weather records, and he confirmed to me that the first nights of January here in the area were all characterised by hard frost. _(_ _Carson, remembering the message he took for Poirot two days before, nods pensively.)_ Only on the morning of the 6th did the temperatures rise above the freezing point again, and heavy rain set in. And now, thanks to Dr Clarkson's brother, we know for a fact that Edward Wilkinson was no longer alive by then. Colonel Clarkson tells me he was out shooting with his cousin in the upper reaches of the Tees Valley this afternoon when they came to a remote gamekeeper's hut above Eryholme. In it, they made the sad discovery of the body of a man who must have been dead for some weeks. Colonel Clarkson says that he lay there quite serenely and peacefully, as if the frost had simply carried him off in his sleep. His hands still clutched a Bible, marked at the final chapters of the Book of Revelation, which tell of the downfall of the devil, and how both heaven and earth will be made anew in the glorious second coming of Christ.

CORA _(quietly):_ God rest him, poor man.

ISOBEL: Amen.

_Several more voices echo hers._

ROBERT: I suppose there can be no mistake about his identity this time?

POIROT: None, Lord Grantham. His name is on the flyleaf of the Bible he held.

_Robert nods. There is a moment of silence, then Mary addresses Poirot._

MARY: And do you know who Mr Coyle met at the ruined chapel, and who was responsible for _his_ death?

POIROT: Yes, Lady Mary. I know both. You may remember wondering what he was doing here in the area. So was I, of course. And again through the indefatigable efforts of Captain Hastings, who traversed half the country in a single day in our search for the truth, I know the answer now. Philip Coyle, as I also related to you on our first night here, was one of three sons of a washerwoman. It was thus an obvious choice for him, when he was young, to go into domestic service, too. Then came the war. Afterwards, Mr Coyle re-entered his profession, but this time with one marked difference.

CORA: Which was …?

POIROT: He changed his name.

CORA _(surprised):_ Oh.

POIROT: Under this new name, he joined an agency that arranged for temporary placements. This suited him very well, partly because it absolved him from having to present a respectable reference to each new employer, which he did not have. And partly also because it allowed him to indulge more easily in a specific vice of his that would have been difficult to get away with if he had stayed in one house for long. And so it came that in April 1922, Philip Coyle was placed with a young nobleman who was invited to stay with friends and wanted to bring a valet to bolster his status and keep up appearances. While a guest in the house of his employer's friends, Coyle did something utterly despicable that made him incur the boiling rage and the bitter hatred of a servant who lived and worked there. I need not go into detail, but I will say that this servant was married, and he regarded an injury to his beloved wife as far worse than any injury to himself could ever have been.

_Robert shifts uneasily in his seat._

ROBERT: Your story is starting to have a ghastly familiar ring to it, Mr Poirot.

POIROT: I dare say it has. In the months that followed, Philip Coyle, to his disquiet, realised that his visit to that house was unlikely to be a singular event. His employer had developed feelings of a romantic nature for the oldest daughter of the family, and was glad of any excuse to come back and visit again. And his employer also showed no inclination to dispense with his new valet's services.

MARY _(with a touch of impatience):_ Can we make this simple and call them by their names?

POIROT: As you wish. Philip Coyle, now Alex Green, perforce returned to Downton Abbey as Lord Gillingham's valet twice that summer. But he also began to cover his tracks. He told the rest of the Gillingham household that he had fallen out with Lord Grantham's valet, though he did not say why, making it sound as if he was the innocent object of Mr Bates' unjust persecution. I think I do not exaggerate when I say that he had started fearing for his life at this point. And he saw no way out. He could not go to the police and ask for protection without revealing his own crime. But neither could he revert to his former identity, because that would have meant the loss of his comfortable position with Lord Gillingham and thus of his livelihood.

EDITH: But why had he changed his name at all?

POIROT: I can only surmise at this point, Lady Edith, that what Coyle's mother refers to as her son's 'wild youth' saw more incidents like the one that happened in your house. There is no police record, unsurprisingly, but I dare say he lost the position he held before the war for similar reasons. Dismissed without a reference, he needed to start anew after the war with a clean slate. He thus became, as Lord Gillingham very aptly put it to Captain Hastings, a man without a past. Unfortunately, it was only his name that he changed, not his character. But as you will see, this would prove to be his undoing. Meanwhile, he had painted himself into a corner, until one day in the summer of 1922, chance offered him an escape from Mr Bates' wrath. He had been sent to the watchmaker with his master's pocket watch and was walking in the busiest part of Piccadilly when he witnessed a terrible accident. A man near him tripped, fell into the road and was run over by a double decker bus. The impact injured the victim so badly that he became unrecognisable, and Philip Coyle seized the opportunity in the blink of an eye. Under the guise of comforting and assisting the dying man, Coyle slipped the watch, which bore his master's name on the case, into the victim's pocket and then made off as soon as the ambulance and police arrived. And thus ended the short life of Alex Green, and Philip Coyle became Philip Coyle again.

CORA: That's not the story of Green's death that we know.

POIROT _(with a smile):_ Of course not. But it is the story that Hercule Poirot knows to be the truth.

MARY: But how could Green hope that the nameless victim would be mistaken for him for long? How likely was it that the poor devil would not be missed by anyone?

POIROT: Unlikely, but not impossible. The good Dr Clarkson spoke the truth when he said to Hastings and me that it was easier to go missing in London without anyone ever asking questions than it would be in the wilderness of the Yorkshire Moors. Besides, I do not think that Coyle, whom you knew as Green, ever planned so far ahead. Even a few days' confusion over the victim's identity would have bought him the time he needed to leave his old life behind. Lord Gillingham would likely have reported his death to the people here at Downton by then, ending any need for Mr Bates to keep looking for a chance to avenge his wife. Thinking it wise to get out of the country for a while, Coyle got himself hired to go out to Egypt, where nobody knew him and his history. And there he waited for the dust to settle.

HASTINGS: But it didn't settle.

POIROT: Exactly. It did not settle. Since the dead man in Piccadilly was never missed by any family or friend or co-worker, he never regained his true name. He remained Alex Green. And as such, Alex Green became a murder victim, with Mr Bates as the principal suspect. At first, the investigation ambled along at a leisurely pace, and it might have led to nothing. But almost two years later, in the spring of 1924, a witness came forward and told the police that she had overheard a contention just before the accident. It was this witness statement that prompted the police to review the case, and to set their sights on Mrs Bates this time.

CORA: I remember we all wondered about that. Why it had taken her so long to make that report.

POIROT: It had taken so long because Philip Coyle, in Egypt, was getting restless and eager to come home. And to be able to do that safely, he would have to destroy the evidence of his crimes. He literally had to destroy Anna and John Bates.

CORA _(stunned):_ He _wanted_ them to take the blame?

POIROT: Oh yes, very much so. One or the other. Which, as you will agree, would have destroyed both of them, either way.

ROBERT: You mean he engineered that witness statement somehow? From Egypt?

POIROT: Precisely. As any magician in any music hall of this country will confirm to you, all great illusions need an assistant to work. And Coyle found that assistant in –

CORA: - his mother? I hope not.

POIROT: No. I believe that Mrs Coyle knows very little of what I am telling you now, or else she would not have had the hardihood to avail herself of the services of Hercule Poirot. It was his brother who came to Philip Coyle's aid.

_A murmur of surprise goes around the room. Baxter glances up at Molesley again, but this time she is looking for comfort rather than offering it. He seems to have little to give._

ROBERT: I seem to remember that Coyle's brothers were both dead.

POIROT: That is where we were all wrong, Lord Grantham. In a misguided attempt to spare Mrs Coyle's feelings, I did not enquire further when she said that Philip was the only son left to her now. Like you all, I naturally assumed that she spoke literally, and that her other two sons had died fighting for their king and country, as so many of their generation did. But as Scotland Yard confirmed to me only hours ago, this was only true of one of them. Alfred Coyle, the oldest, did die in France. The other, Peter Coyle, came back from the war alive, but wounded and with a resulting morphine addiction that required a lot of money to keep him supplied from the black market. He, too, re-entered domestic service after the war, and he specialised in twisting innocent girls and women he was working with around his finger with false promises of affection and marriage, in order to make them steal valuables and money from their employers and hand him the proceeds to feed his addiction.

ISOBEL: That's disgusting.

_Baxter makes a sound like a sob, which she quickly turns into a cough. Cora glances across at her, but she looks down. Molesley leans forward as if move towards her but catches himself just in time. Poirot seems not to notice._

POIROT: I do not wish to decry the memory of Alfred Coyle, of whom I know nothing, but yes, the younger brothers were both cut from the same ugly cloth. It was Peter who got one of his lady friends, if I may use that expresssion, to report to the police that she had overheard Green arguing with someone in Piccadilly just before his death. It wasn't true, of course, but the police saw no reason to disbelieve the woman. The investigation gathered speed then, but it soon became clear that her statement was not enough to convince the police of Mrs Bates' guilt. So the brothers Coyle decided to up the ante. Peter himself came forward this time with a more specific accusation.

ROBERT: The man who identified Anna at the identity Parade in London? That was Peter Coyle?

POIROT: Just so, Lord Grantham. The police, unaware of the connection, thought him a good witness, too, and with the help of a description of Mrs Bates provided by Philip, Peter very easily pointed out Mrs Bates as the person who had pushed Alex Green to his death. This, too, was of course a lie from beginning to end, but it was a lie that could have cost Mrs Bates her life, and would have set Philip Coyle free.

ROBERT _(disdainfully):_ What a b- - bad man.

_There are nods of agreement all around._

POIROT: But then, towards the end of last year, three things happened that the brothers Coyle had not anticipated, but which would prove ruinous to their clever scheme. The first was that Mr Bates took the blame for the death of Alex Green on himself in order to free his wife. The second was that Philip Coyle's employer in Egypt died, leaving his valet stranded and without income. And the third was that Peter Coyle, after years of thieving and cheating and enticing young women into a life of crime, was finally arrested. As I understand it, it was the same young woman whom he had inveigled to bear false witness against the Bateses who prompted this long overdue development. Questioned alone, by a sympathetic female officer, she not only admitted to the falsehood of her testimony, but she also confided to the police what she knew of Peter Coyle's other exploits. Thanks to her, he is in custody now, disowned by his disappointed mother and awaiting trial.

_Baxter makes another strangled noise, but this time, it is drowned out by Isobel's and Cora's voices._

ISOBEL: Brava!

CORA: About time, too!

ROBERT: So what about Philip?

POIROT: He had no choice but to return home to London. And then, as he saw his brother apprehended and the plot against the Bateses crumble, he decided on one last desperate throw of the dice. If he could not destroy the Bateses, he might still bully them into silence, and also profit in the process. So he wrote a letter. He revealed himself to be still alive, but he threatened that he could still bring any number of witnesses against them, and that he would ensure their conviction for murder, unless -

HASTINGS: - they paid him off.

POIROT: Exactly. He wanted money now, plain and simple. Enough money to start over yet again, but this time for real, as his own man, with no master on whose every whim he would depend.

CORA: Blackmail?

POIROT: Yes.

CORA: Then why didn't the Bateses take that letter to the police?

POIROT: Because it was not the Bateses to whom it was addressed. After waiting in Thirsk for several days, on January 6th Philip Coyle received the answer he had hoped for. It summoned him to the ruined chapel above the Wiske Bridge, where he was greeted, to his surprise, by -

HASTINGS: - someone with a gun.

POIROT: Just so.

_Cora gasps._

ROBERT: What?

ISOBEL _(in a sensible tone):_ But Mr Poirot - according to Dr Clarkson, there was no gunshot wound on the body on the tracks.

POIROT _(to Isobel):_ That is correct, Madame.

ROBERT _(to Poirot):_ Mr Poirot, you said you know who the people involved in this were. Out with it, please. I think the time for tact and discretion is over.

POIROT: I will gladly relate to you, Lord Grantham, how the witnesses that Captain Hastings and I have spoken to described the conspirators. I will start with the messenger who came to Golden Fleece Hotel in the early evening of January 6th, driven by a companion who waited outside. His description is the clearest of all. A maid talked to him in the hall of the hotel. She described a young man, tall and slender, dark of hair, dressed in a nobleman's livery and wearing a very distinctive glove – a glove on one hand only that did not cover the fingers.

_There is a sound of shattering china. Thomas has recoiled in shock, so strongly that he has crashed straight into the table behind him where the coffee still stands, forgotten until now by everyone in the room. One of the high coffee pots has toppled over, crushing a cup and flooding the rest of the tray. Molesley quickly reaches across to righten it. Thomas doesn't even seem to notice._

THOMAS _(horrified):_ I – I –

_His shakes his head, his eyes going back and forth wildly between Poirot and Robert, who now rises to his feet._

ROBERT _(gravely):_ Barrow –

THOMAS: No, my lord, I'm not – I didn't –

CORA: Well, there can't be many other people here in the area who fit that description.

THOMAS _(desperately):_ There must be a mistake! That girl –

HASTINGS: She knows what she saw, Mr Barrow. There is no mistake.

_Thomas gulps. Mary exchanges a look with Violet, who has a smile playing about her lips._

VIOLET: You are fools, the lot of you. _(To Robert)_ January 6th was the first Monday in the quarter, was it not? And what do the Earl of Grantham, the butler and the under-butler do between tea time and the dressing gong on every first Monday in the quarter, since time immemorial?

_Comprehension dawns on Carson's face quicker than on Robert's._

CARSON _(to Robert):_ The wine inventory, my lord. We were in the dining room together, the three of us, you, I and Mr Barrow, taking stock and ordering new supplies. _(To Poirot)_ I'm surprised to be the one to say it, but there must indeed be a mistake. I can fetch the books if you want, sir. The record under that date is written in Mr Barrow's own hand.

ROBERT: Oh, of course. _(To Poirot)_ I'm sorry, Mr Poirot, but it's true. Both I and Carson can vouch for Mr Barrow's presence here in the house at the time this supposed messenger came to Thirsk.

 _He nods to the ashen-faced Thomas, who seems to be struggling to even process what_ _s being said_ _. Baxter gets up from her chair and gently nudges Thomas to take her seat. He sits down heavily while Baxter, assisted by Molesley, quietly starts mopping up the spilled coffee with a napkin._

VIOLET: Well, Mr Poirot, shall we see if you can do better with the three conspirators from the ruined chapel? I hope they don't all have alibis, too?

_Her tone is pure challenge. Poirot accepts it with a smile._

POIROT: I will try, Lady Grantham. The signalman at the level crossing by the Wiske Bridge is our witness for the appearance of the three persons who ascended to the ruined chapel that night, about an hour before their appointed meeting with Coyle. He saw an older lady, dressed all in black; a middle-aged man who was tall and 'square as a box', in the good man's words, and who carried a gun; and a young lady, fair-haired and slight.

_He fixes his gaze on Mrs Hughes at these words, who meets it with a steely look of her own. The rest of the room seem to be holding their breath. Robert stubbornly shakes his head._

ROBERT: No. I refuse to believe this.

_Carson now stands, too, and pulls himself up to his full imposing height._

CARSON: And you won't have to, my lord. _(To Poirot)_ Mr Poirot, on the night of January 6th, I and my future wife, whom you seem to suspect of hunting criminals in the woods at the time, were at a restaurant in Ripon, celebrating our engagement. We were not home until nearly midnight. _(He takes Mrs Hughes' hand into his.)_ No man could forget or be mistaken about his own engagement.

POIROT _(amiably):_ Your devotion to your future wife does you credit, Mr Carson.

MARY: And Anna and Bates can't have been there, either, Mr Poirot. They were at the theatre in York. They stayed over at a pub and didn't come back until the next morning. _(She looks across at her father.)_ We gave them the whole evening off, remember, Papa?

ROBERT _(relieved):_ Yes, yes, we did. That was on the 6th, too.

MOLESLEY _(eagerly):_ Miss Baxter here kept their tickets, because they were so nice to look at. And she still has a poster of the show that Mrs Bates got for her, too.

_At his side, Baxter nods in confirmation._

VIOLET _(to Poirot, triumphantly):_ Well, that settles it, doesn't it?

POIROT _(with an enigmatic smile):_ Yes and no, Lady Grantham. _(To Robert and Carson)_ Please to sit down again, gentlemen. There is still some way to go.

_Reluctantly, the Earl and his butler oblige. Thomas, still too dazed to realise that he's being rude now, fails to vacate his seat for Baxter, but she is content to remain standing at Molesley's side. Unnoticed by the others, their hands finally find each other and hold tight._

POIROT: I told my friend Hastings this morning that there was a keen directing intelligence at work behind the scenes in this case. Indeed, I had already sensed it at our first dinner in this house. It intrigued me endlessly. I sensed intelligence, and tenacity, and also a certain recklessness. What I did not sense at first, I am ashamed to say, was the even more admirable motivator that truly underlay this whole mystery.

VIOLET: And that was …?

POIROT: Love.

_There is a stunned silence. For the first time in the scene, Poirot seems to have surprised absolutely everyone in the room. He smiles._

POIROT: While a guest in this house, I have been told several times, and seen with my own eyes several times more, that – in spite of people's obvious differences in character and opinions and personality - the true spirit of this little world of yours is one of friendship and of care for each other, of affection, and of solidarity. Accordingly, the directing intelligence that I sensed at work here turned out not to be malicious in the least, either. There were lies and obfuscation as the conspirators hunkered down and waited for the storm to pass, yes. But I could not detect the slightest intent to cause any more harm. Even I myself, who posed a serious threat to the dire secret of Philip Coyle's death, never faced any enmity, open or secret. Nobody volunteered to tell me the truth, of course, but nobody tried to hinder me, either. Nobody seriously tried to stop me. And certainly – this for the benefit of the two kind souls who were convinced of it at one time or another – certainly nobody tried to kill me.

_His smile becomes a little rueful. Hastings shakes his head. Thomas looks as if he wishes that the ground would open up and swallow him._

POIROT: This intrigued me even more. There was a violent death at the core of this mystery, but it was surrounded by a cloud of benevolence. It was quite extraordinary. I had never experienced anything like that before. If I had, maybe I would have seen much sooner how Philip Coyle met his death that night, and why.

_Nobody speaks. Poirot turns to Cora again._

POIROT: Lady Grantham – let me come back to the gloves, the shoes, the gun, and the hat. Who took them? Not the same person, surely. No single person in this house had free and legitimate access to your dressing room, Lord Grantham's dressing room, the gun room _and_ the servants' hat rack by the back door all at once. So neither a member of the family nor any of the servants could have taken all four of these things without being noticed and challenged at some point. And besides, three of the culprits had already confessed, had they not? Lady Mary told us without hesitation that she had taken your gloves. Mr Branson told us that the gun was his. And Andrew here told me that he knows where the keys to the gun room are kept, and that nobody would question it if he went in there to get one.

_Andy blushes a deep scarlet and looks down._

POIROT: So who took the hat? I will admit that I do not positively know who exactly made it disappear, much to Mr Carson's chagrin, from its place on the rack. But it was most likely taken by a male servant, too, who could walk past that spot for a dozen legitimate reasons, and who could have passed it off as a simple mix-up if he had been caught.

MRS PATMORE _(triumphantly):_ That's where you're wrong, Mr Poirot.

_Poirot just smiles politely._

POIROT: Thank you, Mrs Patmore. I stand corrected.

_Too late, Mrs Patmore realises what she has just admitted to. She gasps. Carson looks ready to explode, but Cora speaks up before he can voice his indignation._

CORA: But what was it all for? I can see the point of the gun, but why take the clothes?

POIROT: I knew that, Lady Grantham, as soon as I heard the testimony from the chambermaid at the Golden Fleece Hotel. You have heard the description that the girl gave us of the person who was and yet was not Mr Barrow - a person from this household, then, who matched Mr Barrow closely enough in age, hair colour and height so that, in the right clothes, they could pass for him.

_Cora looks around at the other servants in wonder, trying to identify a suitable candidate, but it is Hastings who startles them all with a sudden exclamation._

HASTINGS: Good Lord, Poirot! Twelfth Night? The girl who dressed up as a page?

POIROT _(with an appreciative smile):_ Exactly, mon ami. I dare say that is where she got the idea, when she heard which play the Bateses were going to see in York.

_Thomas looks up sharply, then turns to stare directly at Mary._

THOMAS: You – you _played_ _me?_

_Mary shrugs nonchalantly._

MARY: Yes, I did. And I might do it again. I quite enjoyed myself, to be honest. I could get used to the sense of freedom that a pair of trousers conveys.

CORA _(deeply shocked):_ Mary!

MARY: Well, I could hardly have got away with impersonating Mrs Patmore, could I?

MRS PATMORE _(half amused, half indignant):_ Huh! I'd like to see you try, my lady!

_Thomas just shakes his head, stunned._

POIROT: As you are all aware, Lady Mary's speaking voice is pitched fairly low, for a woman's. With her short hair combed back with brilliantine, one of Lady Grantham's light-coloured gloves cut into the same shape as Mr Barrow's, and Mr Carson's bowler hat pulled into her face, she made a very convincing under-butler, at least for the short moment that she was seen at the hotel. She had of course borrowed the rest of her costume from her trusted companion who waited for her in the car. A servant's livery and a gentleman's white tie and tailcoat will look much the same to a casual observer. But her accomplice, whom I know to keep a modest and simple wardrobe, could not lend her any black shoes, I presume because he only owns one pair of those that he needed himself.

ROBERT _(to Mary):_ So you borrowed my spare ones.

POIROT: Yes. And she had to stuff them with newspaper to stop them slipping off her much smaller feet when she walked in them. Which she then forgot to remove again when she returned the shoes later. 

CORA _(to Mary):_ But you couldn't give back the gloves because you'd cut them up?

MARY _(a little guiltily):_ I said I'd get you a new pair, Mama.

VIOLET _(to Mary, with an appreciative chuckle):_ I dare say you looked marvellous, my dear.

TOM _(drily):_ She looked frightening.

_All eyes turn to him. He blushes._

POIROT: Ah, yes, Mr Branson. _(He smiles at Tom.)_ You had me confused for a good while, with your gun and what looked like that timely escape to America. I freely admit that I had you down as the head of this magnificent conspiracy at first, until Lord Grantham spoke to Hastings and me in praise of all that you have done in support of this house and this family. It was then that I understood that your role at Downton is not that of a mover and shaker, but that of a loyal lieutenant. Which you were that evening, too, when you helped Lady Mary put on her disguise and then drove her to Thirsk and back in order to play her part in the drama.

CORA: So that was you, Tom? 

TOM _(defensively):_ Of course. I'm a chauffeur, aren't I? I drive people.

ROBERT: What I don't get is, why did she dress up at all?

POIROT: For two reasons, Lord Grantham. One was that Mr Green might enquire of the hotel staff what the messenger looked like, to make sure he was genuine and not, say, a police agent. The other reason was that if anything should go wrong, as it subsequently did, it was imperative that the true identity of the conspirators should remain secret.

THOMAS _(to Mary, in a tone so accusatory that it makes Carson stare):_ You posed as me so I'd take the blame?

_Poirot holds up his hand in a calming gesture._

POIROT: No, Mr Barrow, on the contrary. Lady Mary posed as you because she knew you were safe from any blame, with both Lord Grantham and Mr Carson to vouch for your alibi. So if anyone were to try and identify the messenger later, they'd simply hit a brick wall and would be forced to give up.

HASTINGS: And the three at the ruined chapel did the same? They dressed up as people who had watertight alibis, too?

POIROT: Exactly. The three conspirators at the ruined chapel may have looked like Mrs Hughes, Mr Bates and Mrs Bates to the signalman at the crossing. And more importantly, they looked like that to Philip Coyle, which was the whole purpose of that meeting. But they were, in fact, not Mrs Hughes, nor Mr and Mrs Bates.

_Cora looks around the room again._

CORA: But who else was out that night? _(To Mary and Tom)_ You were both at dinner with us. We toasted Sybbie's new school, didn't we?

_Next to her mother, Edith seems to be shrinking deeper into her corner of the settee._

POIROT: I will tell you who was out that night. Firstly, a man of roughly the same height and age as Mr Bates, who – with a bit of stuffing inside his coat – could be made to look almost as wide in the shoulders, and who would not be missed from serving at dinner because he had providentially reported sick earlier in the evening.

_Molesley swallows as all eyes turn on him._

ROBERT: Heavens! Is _everyone_ in on this?

VIOLET _(drily):_ Brace yourself, Robert.

POIROT: Secondly, a young woman of Mrs Bates' stature and colouring, who – as the signalman attested – knows how to drive, has access to the family's cars, and would not be missed from the family's dinner either, because she is in the habit of going back and forth to London to look after her business, and is answerable to no one where and how she spends her time.

_Robert whips around to stare at Edith. She shrinks even deeper into her corner._

POIROT: And lastly -

_Violet sits up suddenly._

VIOLET: This is where _I_ provide an alibi, isn't it?

ISOBEL: I believe it is rather too late for that, Cousin Violet. _(She rises from her seat and addresses Poirot in a fearless voice.)_ Yes, Mr Poirot, you are right. The older lady in black was me. _(She takes a deep breath.)_ I take full responsibility for what happened that night. The others only did as I directed. You spoke of the master mind behind this plot, who pulled the strings behind the scenes and who, I am ashamed to say, cajoled others into following her down that dark path. Well, you have unmasked me at last.

_While Cora and Robert gape at their cousin and Mary and Edith exchange a shocked look, Mrs Hughes gets to her feet, too._

MRS HUGHES: I cannot allow this.

_All heads swivel to look at her._

ISOBEL: Mrs Hughes, please -

MRS HUGHES _(firmly):_ No. I cannot let you take the blame when it should fall on no one but myself.

ISOBEL _(urgently):_ Mrs Hughes, be sensible, please. _(She glances at Poirot.)_ He knows a lot, but he doesn't know everything, and he can prove very little. This house needs you, and you're about to get married. Whereas I am a widow, my son is dead and my grandson is well provided for. I'm dispensable. You are not.

MRS HUGHES _(shaking her head):_ No. I am touched by what you're offering, Mrs Crawley, more than I can say. But I cannot accept it. _(She turns to face Poirot with queenly dignity, but her eyes now blaze with righteous anger.)_ Alex Green wrote to me. Anna had confided in me, and I had told him that I knew of his infamy, and that it was only our fear of what Mr Bates might do if he found out that stopped us from exposing it. I admit it, I rejoiced to think of him as dead and buried after that accident in London. And when the police started looking at Mr and Mrs Bates, I cursed his black soul for still haunting them from beyond the grave. But then his letter came. And like the evil undead spirits from the fairytales of my youth, he rose again, threatening the final ruin of the beautiful soul he had done his best to crush, and of her brave defender, if we did not pay him a thousand pounds. A thousand pounds! What was I supposed to do? I had to bring him to heel somehow. I could not know that he had lost his best ally, and that his threats were a bluff, and that we could have just sat the matter out.

_A heavy silence follows her words. Carson gapes at his fiancée as if he has been slapped in the face with a wet eel. Cora shakes her head._

CORA: Mrs Hughes! Why didn't _you_ go straight to the police?

MRS HUGHES: I couldn't. I knew it was him, because he named dates and places that only the real Alex Green would know. But I had no proof. I feared that the police would have dismissed the letter as a hoax, or worse still, as a devious attempt by the Bateses to throw them off their scent.

ROBERT: So you teamed up with the Bateses to –

MRS HUGHES: No, my lord, begging your pardon. The Bateses know nothing of all this. Or at least I hope they don't.

_She gives Poirot a worried glance. He hurries to reassure her._

POIROT: Indeed, Lord Grantham. Mr and Mrs Bates are among the very few people in this house whom the conspirators went to great pains to leave in the dark. It is not a coincidence that they are absent tonight, too. _(He turns to Mary.)_ I assume I have to thank you, Lady Mary, for reading the signs aright and making arrangements accordingly. I applaud your instincts.

_Mary inclines her head, torn between admiration for Poirot's clever manoeuvering and resentment at having been so expertly steered._

POIROT: Indeed, the Bateses would never have accepted it if anyone had put themselves in the wrong or placed themselves in danger for their sake. So the conspirators made very sure to keep their plot secret from them. They deliberately staged this drama on a night when the Bateses would be certain to have an alibi. They even preserved the Bateses' theatre tickets for that purpose _._ And they were delighted when Mrs Bates unwittingly reinforced her alibi even further, when she asked and received one of the show's posters for her friend, ensuring that the theatre staff would have a specific reason to remember her if the need arose.

_Carson jumps up from his chair again._

CARSON _(to Mrs Hughes):_ But - you _wanted_ us to go out to dinner that night! I was concerned to go on the same day when His Lordship and Lady Mary would already have to do without their valet and maid, but you insisted!

MRS HUGHES: Yes, and now you know why.

POIROT _(to Carson):_ Of course, the conspirators afforded Mrs Hughes the same protection. As the recipient of Coyle's brazen demand for money, she would be another prime suspect if anything went wrong. So she had to be seen and known to be elsewhere that night, too. And in case her future husband's word would not have been considered enough by the police, the conspirators gave the staff at the restaurant in Ripon an additional reason to remember this particular couple, too. They called ahead to tell them that it was an engagement, and to greet the happy bride and groom with a surprise glass of champagne.

_Carson opens his mouth, but no words came out. Speechless at how much duplicity has gone on right under his nose and he never noticed, he turns to Mrs Hughes, shoulders drooping, eyes like a sad old basset hound, the very picture of despondency. Mrs Hughes puts a hand on his arm._

MRS HUGHES: I'm sorry, Charles, I truly am. But it would have broken you, to have to choose between what was right in the eyes of the law and what was justice in the eyes of God. I stayed silent to protect _you_ , too.

CORA _(to Mrs Hughes):_ But Mrs Hughes, we would have happily _given_ you the thousand pounds if it could have kept the Bateses safe. You only had to ask!

MRS HUGHES _(regretfully):_ I know that, my lady, but –

POIROT _(to Cora, quickly):_ But she meant to protect your and Lord Grantham's good name, too, by not getting you mixed up in an ugly blackmailing plot. As she protected the innocence of all the younger people working in this house, of the hall boys and the housemaids, and – _(He turns to look at Daisy.)_ \- even of your young under-cook, who I believe knew nothing of this whole affair until I came here and started asking questions, which she would have been eager to answer at first but then suddenly decided not to.

_Daisy blushes. Mrs Patmore pats her knee in a gesture of defiant maternal pride. Poirot mercifully refrains from mentioning why Thomas wasn't invited to share the secret, and instead turns back to Cora and Robert._

POIROT: As I said, this was a conspiracy of love. Everyone who played a part in it, no matter how big or small, was motivated by nothing but affection, sympathy, and care for one another. 

CORA _(in a quiet voice, as if afraid to say the words):_ But Mr Poirot – you as good as said that our daughter Edith, Cousin Isobel and Molesley here _killed_ Philip Coyle.

POIROT: No. Nobody killed Philip Coyle, unless it was his own greed and his own villainy. Maybe the three who were there should explain to us others now what exactly happened at the ruined chapel.

EDITH _(in a strained voice):_ I'd rather you did. Since you seem to know anyway.

_Poirot glances at Isobel, who nods. She, Mrs Hughes and Carson resume their seats._

POIROT: Coyle ascended the path to ruined chapel that night, expecting to deal with only one frightened woman, and confident that his demand would be met. But instead, he saw himself confronted by three very angry people whom he, in the faint light from the single lantern that they had brought with them, naturally mistook for his Downton archenemies. They had a package with them that he assumed held the money he had asked for. But the man also had a gun.

MOLESLEY: We should never have brought it.

MARY: We couldn't let you face that man unarmed, Molesley.

MOLESLEY: But I wouldn't have known what to do with it, even if -

POIROT: - even if Coyle's initial horror at meeting his nemesis face to face had not transformed, in an instant, into a new nefarious plan. Just as on that day in Piccadilly, when he turned a poor nameless man's misfortune into an opportunity to save his own skin, he now saw a chance to both enrich himself _and_ forever eliminate the threat of Mr Bates' fury. So Coyle rushed in and grabbed both the money –

VIOLET: - and the gun. _(Everyone looks at her in surprise. She shrugs.)_ It's what I'd have done.

POIROT _(without the slightest trace of irony):_ I have no doubt of that, Lady Grantham. Well, as opposed to Mr Molesley here, whose many qualities do not include confidence when handling firearms, Coyle had been in the war and knew how to use a gun. He ran a few yards back down the footpath to put some distance between himself and his opponents, then turned, took aim and fired. But in the dark and in the confusion, he missed his target. It was a near miss, however. He did not manage to shoot Mr Molesley – or Mr Bates, as he thought - in the head. But the spray of the shot went so closely over his intended victim that it ruined Mr Carson's hat, which had changed hands earlier that evening and was now a part of Mr Molesley's costume. _(He turns to Carson.)_ That was the reason why it never came back, Mr Carson. Like Lady Grantham's gloves, it was damaged beyond repair, this time by scorch marks, and the nature of the damage would have been, as they say, a dead giveaway.

_By the coffee table, Molesley has broken out in a cold sweat as he is forced to relive his adventure. He speaks in a thin, hollow voice._

MOLESLEY: I just dropped down. I saw him point the gun at me, and I just… fell to the ground. My knees just gave way. _(He gulps.)_ I'm so sorry. I'm no hero. Never will be.

_Thomas abruptly gets up from Baxter's chair and turns to face Molesley almost angrily._

THOMAS: Don't be stupid. That instinct saved your life. _(He waves his hand impatiently at the chair he has just vacated.)_ And now sit down, before it happens again.

_Startled by so much generosity from such an unexpected quarter, Molesley obeys. He lowers himself into the chair and hides his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving._

BAXTER _(to Thomas, quietly):_ Thank you.

_Poirot resumes his tale._

POIROT: The gun they had brought was double-barrelled, so Coyle made a second attempt to rid himself of his supposed mortal enemy, but this ended in a misfire. Not knowing whether he had already wounded his opponent fatally or not, but with no time nor means to reload and make sure, Coyle then flung the gun into the bushes. He still had the package with the money, so if he could shake off his his pursuers and make it back to the road, then he might still escape, and he might still start a new life with the help of his ill-gotten gains. So he took off at speed back down the path into the Wiske Valley. But it was a treacherous path. It's rather steep, and you may remember that according to Mr Dawes' weather records, it had rained heavily that day, so it would have been slippery, too. Coyle, who was unfamiliar with the area and had no light, or dared use none, soon lost his way. He stumbled blindly downhill, assuming that sooner or later he would come out onto the road that would take him back to safety. But he had veered too far north, and it was not the road he came out on. The signalman at the Wiske Bridge, who had stepped out of his cabin at the approach of the night train to London, heard him before he saw him, crashing through the undergrowth and then tumbling down the near-vertical embankment onto the railway line. Moments later, the train was there. And in an instance of poetic justice such as I have rarely seen, Philip Coyle died almost exactly in the same manner as he had pretended to die in Piccadilly more than two years before – in a tragic accident, crushed beyond recognition by a piece of machinery that the human body was not created to withstand.

ROBERT: And may God have mercy on his soul.

_No one is unaffected by what they have just heard. It is as if Poirot's frank words have broken a dam, and a silent but massive wave of emotion suddenly floods the room. Molesley, his face still buried in his hands, lets out a groan. Baxter, tears in her own eyes, puts her hand on his shoulder. Edith is crying quietly in Cora's arms. Tom Branson looks down, his lips pressed so firmly together that his mouth has become a thin line. Mrs Patmore wipes her eyes with a corner of her apron. Daisy, a little awkwardly, takes her hand and holds it. Isobel is the first to find her voice again. It is rather shaky._

ISOBEL: We didn't want that to happen, Mr Poirot. We wanted to put the fear of God into him, as far as a man like that even understands what that means, and then send him away empty-handed. But we never meant for him to die.

POIROT: I know you did not, Madame Crawley. What with the shock of Mr Molesley down, and none of you knowing that the second shot had jammed, I know that you never thought to follow him when he fled. Coyle chose his own fate.

_Molesley raises his head._

MOLESLEY: We heard the train, though. The sudden screeching of the brakes as it ground to a halt down in the valley, and then the shouts… the lights…

_He shudders. Baxter tightens her hold on his shoulder._

POIROT: There was nothing you could have done.

EDITH: I don't know how I drove all the way back without crashing the car. I was in such a daze.

ISOBEL: We all were. We didn't even think to go looking for the gun the next morning. It wasn't until the gamekeepers reported it missing that Tom went out to fetch it back.

_Tom nods._

ROBERT: But what about the money? There was none found on the body, was there? _(To Isobel)_ A thousand pounds? Where did you even get so much so quickly?

MARY: I'm afraid we didn't, Papa.

POIROT: No, indeed. Everyone that night played a role, and so also did a batch of pieces of newspaper, cut from the same edition of The Times as the stuffing in Lord Grantham's shoes. The ones that could be retrieved are now in the keeping of the director of Birkby Manor. Exactly one hundred pieces of newspaper originally, each in the size of a ten pound note.

ROBERT _(to Mary, amazed):_ You _cheated_ him?

VIOLET: Of course they did. _(Reproachfully)_ You never pay off blackmailers, Robert. They'll only come back for more!

CORA _(with a sigh):_ This one at least is never coming back, that's for sure. Well – _(She turns to look at Mrs Hughes again.)_ I have nothing to say to all of this, except that I'm sorry you didn't let me be part of it.

VIOLET: And I'm sorry that you didn't come to _me_ right away. I would have settled the matter for you out of hand, with none of that masquerade and none of that nobility. Just the gun. 

POIROT _(with a twinkle in his eyes):_ But then, Lady Grantham, I would have missed out on a fantastic case.

ROBERT: Well, Mr Poirot – it seems we're all in your hands. What will you do now?

POIROT: Nothing. I told you that there was no crime for me to investigate here, and there isn't. _(He looks around at the conspirators, some of whom are still drying their tears.)_ I believe that whatever penance may be due is already being paid, in the currency of guilt and of grief, of regret and self-reproach, of nightmares and evil memories. I'm afraid they will stay with you for a long while, and I would not voluntarily add to that burden. You gave a lot in order to right a terrible wrong and to save your worthy friends. And as I said to Mrs Hughes only a day or two ago, I see no reason to render this sacrifice null and void by thoughtlessly exposing it to the prying eyes of others.

_The entire room heaves a collective sigh of relief._

CORA: That's incredibly generous of you, Mr Poirot.

POIROT: I hope this will repay whatever debt I owe you for imposing on your hospitality and misusing your good faith, Lady Grantham.

CORA: Amply.

ROBERT: But won't you have to tell Mrs Coyle what happened to her son?

POIROT: I will tell her the truth as far as the manner of his death and the location of his grave are concerned. She has done nothing to deserve being left in the dark about that. I will also have to speak to Dr Latimer at Birkby Manor and tell him that he will now have to bury his unfortunate patient yet again. But apart from that, I believe there is nothing more to be said. I promise that I will keep your secret, and I advise you strongly to do the same. You have no more need to lie to each other now, but let that be enough. Do not let anything that has been said here tonight leave the confines of this room. Nothing good can come of it if you do.

_He waits for everyone to nod or give a murmur of assent. Mary speaks up for all of them._

MARY: We won't disappoint you, Mr Poirot.

POIROT _(with a sudden, radiant smile):_ Then we are all conspirators now, conspirators in a good cause. And I consider it an honour to count myself amongst your number.


	16. Thursday, January 23rd 1925 / Night

**SCENE 150**

**INT. THE GREAT HALL. NIGHT**

_A little later, Hercule Poirot is about to take his leave of the Crawley family and their household, true to his word that he would remove himself from Downton Abbey as soon as the mystery was solved. The front door stands open, and the Dowager Countess'_ _car is waiting outside to take Violet, Isobel and the two detectives back down to the village. Poirot and Hastings, in their coats and holding their hats, come down the great staircase, followed by Andy, who carries Poirot's suitcases. At the bottom of the stairs, the family have assembled to see them off. And so have the servants, even though there is little necessity for most of them to still be there. Even Mrs Patmore and Daisy have lingered. Poirot, followed by Hastings, approaches Cora and Robert._

CORA: Well, goodbye, Mr Poirot. You have shaken us up, I must say. But you've also put us back together again, so we bear you no grudge. On the contrary.

ROBERT: You'll always be welcome again in our house.

_Poirot inclines his head in gracious acknowledgement, then moves on to bid the younger generation farewell. Mary, Edith and Tom group around him._

MARY: Mr Poirot – one last question. The Bateses are still officially under suspicion of murder. We're not sure how serious the police will be about these charges now, with the witness statements gone up in smoke. But just in case - haven't we ruined the Bateses' defence now, by getting their supposed victim killed for real?

POIROT: I have given thought to that, Lady Mary. Do not worry about Mr and Mrs Bates. I have contacts at Scotland Yard who will be able to make the charges go away with some plausible explanation. They will trust me when I tell them that there is nothing to be gained from stirring up any more trouble over the death of Alex Green. But it may take some time, so I must ask you to be patient. 

EDITH: Will you come back and tell us when you've worked something out?

POIROT: I will not, Lady Edith. It will serve the Bateses' cause better if the connection between Hercule Poirot and Downton Abbey remains what it still is in the eyes of the outside world - a tenuous chance encounter.

TOM: But you will send word?

POIROT: I will find a way to convey the message to you, yes. I cannot tell you yet who the messenger will be, or whether he will even be aware of his role. But you will know it when you hear it.

_He shakes hands with the three of them, then leaves Hastings to say a rather formal goodbye to Mary, a somewhat wistful one to Edith and a very cordial one to Tom. Meanwhile, Poirot walks over to the servants. When he reaches Molesley and Baxter, the two of them both still look rather pale and shaken._

BAXTER _(in a very low voice):_ Thank you, Mr Poirot, for not… you know.

POIROT _(with a smile):_ I wish you nothing but the best, Miss Baxter. You deserve it. _(He turns to Molesley, who is watching them anxiously, and includes him in his smile.)_ You, too, Mr Molesley. You may not feel that you have the heart of a lion, but it's certainly in the right place _._

_Molesley manages to summon a weak smile in response. Poirot moves on to Mrs Hughes and Carson._

POIROT: Well, my best wishes to you both, too. _(To Carson)_ You are about to be married to a splendid woman, Mr Carson. Anyone she chooses to bestow her love and affection on should count himself blessed and the envy of any man living.

_Carson only nods, the muscles of his face working as he tries to process his currently very, very mixed feelings on the subject. Poirot holds out his hand to Mrs Hughes._

POIROT: Mrs Hughes. It has been an honour to cross swords with you, if I may use the expression. If it hadn't been for one chance encounter on the Birkby road on a rainy day, I believe it is very likely that you would have driven me from the field in triumph, and I would never have got to the bottom of this strange affair. May the people of Downton Abbey thrive for many more years to come under your kind guiding hand.

_Mrs Hughes actually blushes a little as she takes his offered hand._

MRS HUGHES: Well, what can I say. You're a generous victor, sir, and I will be forever grateful for that.

_Meanwhile, Violet and Isobel have started walking towards the front door with Hastings in their wake. Poirot, with one last farewell still to make, looks around, but Thomas has gone to hold the glass door into the vestibule open for the ladies. Poirot follows them outside, putting his hat on as he goes._

**SCENE 151**

**EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY. NIGHT**

_Outside the house, Violet's chauffeur and Hastings share the task of handing the ladies into the car. Andy walks around it to put Poirot's luggage into the back. Hearing footsteps on the gravel behind him, Poirot turns and at last finds himself face to face with Thomas, who has followed him out. There is a moment of rather awkward silence, but then Poirot holds out his hand to him, too._

POIROT: Well, Mr Barrow. Here ends our own little conspiracy then. Thank you so much for your excellent care of me.

THOMAS: Well, I'm glad I made a passable nurse, at least. Even if you didn't need one.

_Poirot shakes his head._

POIROT: No, no, do not despair, Mr Barrow. You may not have beaten me to the solution of the mystery, but there is no shame in failing to beat Hercule Poirot.

THOMAS: I can see now why I didn't deserve a warning. I've disappointed you.

POIROT: Have I not disappointed you, too?

THOMAS: So you mean we're even?

POIROT: I should like to think that we part as friends. And friends have no need of any reckoning.

_Thomas looks down._

THOMAS: I'll never make a good detective.

POIROT: Oh, you may yet. Once you remember how to value the truth for its own sake, not just as a means to further your own interests. _(His_ _expression softens.)_ But that habit is hard to shake, isn't it, once looking over your shoulder has become second nature. And I think I know how that came about, so I don't blame you, nor anyone else in the same situation. _(T_ _homas looks up in surprise.)_ But I hope, I very much hope, that one day we'll all be free of that necessity.

 _A momentary glow of relief passes across Thomas_ _'_ _face, but then resignation quickly snuffs it out again._

THOMAS: Not in our lifetime.

POIROT: Who knows.

_With a final warm smile, he touches his hat, then disappears into the depths of Violet's car. Andy, back from stowing the luggage, closes the car door, and the car moves away. Thomas watches it go until the tail lights disappear around the corner at the end of the drive. Then he heaves a sigh and turns back towards the large rectangle of golden light that is the open door of the house._

**SCENE 152**

**INT. DOWNTON VILLAGE. CRAWLEY HOUSE. THE DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT**

_It_ _'_ _s past midnight, but Hercule Poirot, Captain Hastings, Isobel Crawley and Dr Clarkson are still wide awake. Still in their evening finery, they have relit the fire in the cold grate and made themselves comfortable on settees and in armchairs, coffee cups in their hands. Dr Clarkson puffs at his pipe as the other three fill him in on the final chapter of the strange case of the disappearance and death of Philip Coyle. When they have finished their tale, the doctor turns to Isobel._

DR CLARKSON: So this is the end, is it? What looked like a ruthless murder turns out to be a valiant effort by a group of true friends to save an innocent couple from suffering any more hurt.

ISOBEL: Indeed. I admit that I feel strangely light, now that the truth is out. Like coming out of a long, dark tunnel. I will never stop regretting that I contributed to a man's death, however indirectly. But I did hate the lies that went with it, and I'm glad beyond words that I'm done with those.

DR CLARKSON: You astonish me, Mrs Crawley. It wasn't even your quarrel.

ISOBEL: It is every woman's quarrel, Dr Clarkson, and it should be every man's, too.

DR CLARKSON: Well… _(To Poirot)_ So my coroner's verdict was correct after all. Apart from the little matter of the identity of the victim. Who would have thought. _(He chuckles, but then sobers up again quickly.)_ And what do we do with Wilkinson's real body now? They'll bring him to the hospital in the morning, but then? The Church has already paid for Coyle's grave. They won't be happy to learn the truth.

POIROT: They won't need to, Doctor. Let these two unhappy men rest side by side, and if a prayer intended for one of them is said over the remains of the other, there is no harm done. I dare say both their souls need all the prayers they can get.

ISOBEL _(with a sigh):_ Amen to that.

POIROT: I'm sure that Lord Grantham can be relied upon to provide the funds for the second burial.

ISOBEL: Actually, I'd like to pay for it, if you don't mind. It would give me some peace of mind. A short while ago, I was willing to hand out a thousand pounds to a complete scoundrel. Let me give this small final comfort to that unhappy invalid now.

_Dr Clarkson shrugs in agreement._

HASTINGS _(to Isobel):_ I was wondering about that, Mrs Crawley. I took it that Mrs Hughes came to you for the money to pay Coyle off. Whose idea was it to send him packing with those worthless scraps of paper instead? And, if need be, with a blast of shot to speed his retreat?

POIROT: Ah, Hastings, that is as clear as crystal, is it not?

ISOBEL _(a little uncomfortably):_ Well, I and the girls, that is Lady Mary and Lady Edith, would have been happy to give Mrs Hughes the money, yes. But –

POIROT: But Mrs Hughes is a proud woman, and her failure to protect one of her charges from such a despicable attack, in her own household and under her very own nose, rankled too much to permit that man to triumph in the end.

ISOBEL: I'm afraid that's quite true. That attack on Anna was a terrible blow to Mrs Hughes, too. Ever since she's been in charge at Downton Abbey, mothers here in the area have been happy to entrust their daughters to her care, and it was always her pride and joy to keep them safe and well looked-after. She blamed herself as much as she blamed that horrible brute when he crashed through her defences. She was not going to give in to him without a fight this time. And we thought she was right, you know. We didn't need much persuading, none of us did.

POIROT: Mrs Hughes is a truly remarkable woman.

ISOBEL: She is.

DR CLARKSON: Does Mr Carson know what he's taking on, though? _(To Isobel)_ Do you think their engagement will survive this?

ISOBEL: Oh yes, I have no doubts about that. It may take a while, but I'm sure he will come to understand why she left him out of the conspiracy. Mr Carson is a decent and upright man, but too upright at times, and he's well aware of that shortcoming.

DR CLARKSON: But you did a noble thing there, Mrs Crawley, offering to take all the blame when, for all you knew, Mr Poirot was still looking to catch and punish a gang of murderers.

ISOBEL _(with a faint smile):_ Mrs Hughes and I have been sisters-in-arms before, Dr Clarkson, standing up for those who couldn't fend for themselves. It wasn't by chance that Mrs Hughes took Green's letter to me first. _(To Poirot)_ I'm sorry, I still can't get used to his real name. We only ever knew him as Green, and you can imagine our horror when Tom Branson came back from Thirsk with Captain Hastings and told us that you must be looking for the same man, only under a different name.

DR CLARKSON _(to Isobel, with genuine admiration):_ Well, I must congratulate you on your nerve, too. All of you. I can't imagine how you even slept at night, with Hercule Poirot inching ever closer to the truth.

ISOBEL: Well, we didn't. Not much, at any rate. And we did all slip up at some point, or we must have. I like to think that I didn't, but I may be wrong. 

POIROT: Indeed, Madame. You were harder to read than some. Not like the charming undercook whose eagerness to assist me evaporated so quickly, or the young footman who rattled off both Mrs Hughes' and the Bateses' alibis as if he had learned them by rote, which I'm sure he had. Mrs Hughes herself, of course, committed the grave error of chatting too much to a friendly stranger in a taxi before I ever even set foot in the Abbey, and Lady Mary and Tom Branson made themselves immediately suspicious to me when they hurried to explain away Lord and Lady Grantham's mysterious little anecdotes at our first dinner there. You, Madame, I only began to suspect very late in the game, when I remembered a remark that my friend Hastings here had made to me earlier on. 

HASTINGS _(surprised):_ Oh? What did I say?

POIROT: You warned me to be suspicious of anyone who was too eager to offer me their help. And you were right, of course. Criminals will often try to insert themselves into an investigation, in order to keep up with the results and to throw the investigators off the scent if necessary. You, Hastings, were talking about the wrong person at the time, but your comment reminded me how we had barely set foot on Yorkshire soil when Madame Crawley had already invited us to tea. Add to that her insistence that we stay here with her, rather than at the Doctor's or even at the pub, and the great interest she took in every step of our investigation, even once I had relocated to the Abbey - it was a textbook case of a malefactor trying to gather information under the guise of offering assistance.

_Isobel blushes scarlet, which is a very unusual sight._

ISOBEL: I'm ashamed to have been so transparent. But yes, Dr Clarkson's plight could not have been more opportune.

_Dr Clarkson laughs aloud._

DR CLARKSON: My, my. And what about all those disguises and impersonations – were they your idea, too?

ISOBEL: No, those were a group effort, really. Mrs Hughes and I confided in the Crawley girls first. Then we heard of the Bateses' plans to go and see Twelfth Night in York, and the plot snowballed from there, so to speak. We got Tom Branson on board because he and Mary can go everywhere together without anyone wondering. Mary stole the gloves, the shoes and the newspaper. I asked Mr Molesley to play the role of Mr Bates. _(To Poirot)_ As you may know, he's my former butler, so it would not have been strange for us to be seen talking together. Edith came along as Anna because she could borrow a car for us without anyone asking questions. From that point onwards, we were so many already that it became easier to include people than to shut them out. Mrs Patmore took Mr Carson's hat while the rest of the staff were at their tea, but she insisted that we leave Daisy out of it. Andy volunteered to fetch us the gun and to cover for Mr Molesley, who was supposedly ill in bed on the evening of the 6th, and in fact _was_ ill in bed from the moment we came back from the ruined chapel until well into the next day. I still feel terribly guilty about that. We just didn't imagine that Green would attack anyone who wasn't much smaller and weaker than him, or I'd never have asked Molesley to come along. And Miss Baxter…

POIROT: … was made custodian of the Bateses' theatre tickets because it was the one task that could not possibly be construed as a criminal act. I applaud your thoughtfulness, Madame.

ISOBEL: I don't know if…

POIROT: Yes, I know the reason why she could not risk contributing more than that. But I'm sure Miss Baxter would not thank us for blazoning it abroad.

HASTINGS _(to Dr Clarkson, who looks rather confused):_ I'm afraid it's one of those things that we'll never understand, but believe me, it's always in a good cause.

DR CLARKSON: I'll take your word for it. _(To Isobel)_ So in the end, the only people who weren't in on the secret, apart from the youngsters that you didn't want to corrupt, were Lord and Lady Grantham, Mr Carson, and the Bateses themselves?

ISOBEL: Yes. And Thomas, I'm afraid. We did debate whether to let him in, but we didn't feel…

_Her voice trails off awkwardly._

DR CLARKSON: … that you could trust him.

ISOBEL: Mmh. I don't know. We may have been wrong. _(She shrugs.)_ But in the end, it made no difference, did it?

DR CLARKSON: Not to you, maybe. 

_He leans forward to tap out his pipe, refraining from further comment, but Isobel looks rather guilty all the same._

HASTINGS _(to Poirot):_ What game were you playing there anyway, you and Barrow?

POIROT: Oh, I wouldn't call it a game. I will admit that I was faintly amused by Mr Barrow's attempt to get to the truth quicker than I would. Once we had been to Thirsk together, you and I, and I knew that it was certainly not him whom the chambermaid had seen at the Golden Fleece Hotel, I was sure that he was merely driven by ambition, not by malice. So there was no harm in letting him try.

HASTINGS: But you said he was avoiding you.

POIROT: Only at the end, when he'd changed sides.

HASTINGS _(astonished):_ He'd what?

POIROT: Why, of course. Once he'd realised that it wasn't just a game, and how much was really at stake for everyone in the house, he clammed up completely. Too late to stop me, of course, but - _(with a pointed glance at Isobel)_ – I hope the conspirators will at least acknowledge his good intentions.

ISOBEL: I'll see what I can do.

POIROT: Thank you.

HASTINGS: How on earth did he find out the truth?

POIROT _(with a laugh):_ Please don't ask me for the details, Hastings. I'm afraid those will forever remain a secret between Thomas Barrow and the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

DR CLARKSON _(under his breath):_ Well, there's a pair.

POIROT: I agree, Doctor. They have much in common, those two. Not least because fortune has placed them both in positions in which their true talents are utterly wasted.

ISOBEL _(thoughtfully):_ I think you may be right there.

POIROT _(with a bright smile):_ Of course I am right, Madame. I am Hercule Poirot!

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends Hercule Poirot's excursion into the world of Downton Abbey. 
> 
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, to every single one of you who has read the story, kudoed and especially commented, or may yet do so. It's been quite a ride and I've loved taking you all along. You've brightened every single day of the past weeks of my life with your kind compliments, thoughtful analyses and sometimes frighteningly clever (and sometimes simply hilarious) theories. Especially for a crime writer, there's nothing like hearing what works and what doesn't. I'm infinitely obliged to you all - the regular gang (you know who you are :-)) as well as the occasional commenters and the lurkers - for taking the time to come to my party and share the fun. 
> 
> To those of you who think that Thomas deserves better - I couldn't agree more. Let me assure you that I treat him much more kindly in literally all my other Downton stories.
> 
> Say hello on Tumblr @jolie-goes-downton! 
> 
> Looking for transcripts of the Season 4, 5 and 6 episodes of Downton Abbey for your own writing projects? Find them [here!](https://jolie-black.livejournal.com/11071.html)


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